


The Khalasar of the Iron Tiger: An SSSS/ASoIaF OC Fanfic

by Kaffeinated_Krow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: A bit of a fix fic, Alchemy, Alliances, Badass Spirits, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Butterfly, Collaboration, Crossover, Culture Shock, Curb-Stomp Battle, Dark Magic, Dream worlds, Emil takes a level in badass, Escalation, Fate vs. Chaos, Gen, Genghis Khal, Hell even Viserys takes a level in badass, Horror, Lalli is a cat, Let's you and him fight, Magic, Modernizing, Norse Mythology - Freeform, One-Man Industrial Revolution, Plague, Politics, Pride, Rape Attempt, Redeeming asshole characters, Reynir gets an actual teacher, Sigrun is terrifying, Someone punches the Lannisters, Taking a Sledgehammer to the Timeline, Taking a level in badass, The Rash, Things Go Wrong, Traditional Finnish Mythology, Turning Grimdark to Noblebright, Tuuri takes a level in badass, defiance of feudalism, language barriers, screw destiny I have firepower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 54,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaffeinated_Krow/pseuds/Kaffeinated_Krow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our intrepid crew, plus a pair of foreign strangers, finds themselves thrust into the bleakest fantasy universe in existence. Things become...interesting...from there on out.</p><p>Mostly dead.</p><p>Ragnarok Ascendant has ceased writing, all further chapters will be written by Kaffienated_Krow</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, let's get this party started.
> 
> The beginning is from the original text of Game of Thrones, and is property of George R.R Martin and his associates.

"The Dothraki sea," Ser Jorah Mormont said as he reined to a halt beside her on the top of the ridge. beneath them, the plain stretched out immense and empty, a vast flat expanse that reached to the distant horizon and beyond. It was a sea, Dany thought. Past here, there were no hills, no mountains, no trees nor cities nor roads, only the endless grasses, the tall blades rippling like waves when the winds blew. "It's so green," she said.

"Here and now," Ser Jorah agreed. "You ought to see it when it blooms, all dark red flowers from horizon to horizon, like a sea of blood. Come the dry season, and the world turns the color of old bronze. And this is only hranna, child. There are a hundred kinds of grass out there, grasses as yellow as lemon and as dark as indigo, blue grasses and orange grasses and grasses like rainbows. Down in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, they say there are oceans of ghost grass, taller than a man on horseback with stalks as pale as milkglass. It murders all other grass and glows in the dark with the spirits of the damned. The Dothraki claim that someday ghost grass will cover the entire world, and then all life will end."

That thought gave Dany the shivers. "I don't want to talk about that now," she said. "It's so beautiful here, I don't want to think about everything dying."

"As you will, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said respectfully.

She heard the sound of voices and turned to look behind her. She and Mormont had outdistanced the rest of their party, and now the others were climbing the ridge below them. Her handmaid Irri and the young archers of her khas were fluid as centaurs, but Viserys still struggled with the short stirrups and the flat saddle. Her brother was miserable out here. He ought never have come. Magister Illyrio had urged him to wait in Pentos, had offered him the hospitality of his manse, but Viserys would have none of it. He would stay with Drogo until the debt had been paid, until he had the crown he had been promised. "And if he tries to cheat me, he will learn to his sorrow what it means to wake the dragon," Viserys had vowed, laying a hand on his borrowed sword. Illyrio had blinked at that and wished him good fortune.

Dany realized that she did not want to listen to any of her brother's complaints right now. The day was too perfect. The sky was a deep blue, and high above them a hunting hawk circled. The grass sea swayed and sighed with each breath of wind, the air was warm on her face, and Dany felt at peace. She would not let Viserys spoil it.

"Wait here," Dany told Ser Jorah. "Tell them all to stay. Tell them I command it."

The knight smiled. Ser Jorah was not a handsome man. He had a neck and shoulders like a bull, and coarse black hair covered his arms and chest so thickly that there was none left for his head. Yet his smiles gave Dany comfort. "You are learning to talk like a queen, Daenerys."

"Not a queen," said Dany. "A khaleesi." She wheeled her horse about and galloped down the ridge alone.

The descent was steep and rocky, but Dany rode fearlessly, and the joy and the danger of it were a song in her heart. All her life Viserys had told her she was a princess, but not until she rode her silver had Daenerys Targaryen ever felt like one.

At first it had not come easy. The khalasar had broken camp the morning after her wedding, moving east toward Vaes Dothrak, and by the third day Dany thought she was going to die. Saddle sores opened on her bottom, hideous and bloody. Her thighs were chafed raw, her hands blistered from the reins, the muscles of her legs and back so wracked with pain that she could scarcely sit. By the time dusk fell, her handmaids would need to help her down from her mount.

Even the nights brought no relief. Khal Drogo ignored her when they rode, even as he had ignored her during their wedding, and spent his evenings drinking with his warriors and bloodriders, racing his prize horses, watching women dance and men die. Dany had no place in these parts of his life. She was left to sup alone, or with Ser Jorah and her brother, and afterward to cry herself to sleep. Yet every night, some time before the dawn, Drogo would come to her tent and wake her in the dark, to ride her as relentlessly as he rode his stallion. He always took her from behind, Dothraki fashion, for which Dany was grateful; that way her lord husband could not see the tears that wet her face, and she could use her pillow to muffle her cries of pain. When he was done, he would close his eyes and begin to snore softly and Dany would lie beside him, her body bruised and sore, hurting too much for sleep.

Day followed day, and night followed night, until Dany knew she could not endure a moment longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night . . .

Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Viserys was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood. Her blood, Dany sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma, and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her, She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce.

And the next day, strangely, she did not seem to hurt quite so much. It was as if the gods had heard her and taken pity. Even her handmaids noticed the change. "Khaleesi," Jhiqui said, "what is wrong? Are you sick?"

"I was," she answered, standing over the dragon's eggs that Illyrio had given her when she wed. She touched one, the largest of the three, running her hand lightly over the shelf. Black-and-scarlet, she thought, like the dragon in my dream. The stone felt strangely warm beneath her fingers . . . or was she still dreaming? She pulled her hand back nervously.

From that hour onward, each day was easier than the one before it. Her legs grew stronger; her blisters burst and her hands grew callused; her soft thighs toughened, supple as leather.

The khal had commanded the handmaid Irri to teach Dany to ride in the Dothraki fashion, but it was the filly who was her real teacher. The horse seemed to know her moods, as if they shared a single mind. With every passing day, Dany felt surer in her seat. The Dothraki were a hard and unsentimental people, and it was not their custom to name their animals, so Dany thought of her only as the silver. She had never loved anything so much.

As the riding became less an ordeal, Dany began to notice the beauties of the land around her. She rode at the head of the khalasar with Drogo and his bloodriders, so she came to each country fresh and unspoiled. Behind them the great horde might tear the earth and muddy the rivers and send up clouds of choking dust, but the fields ahead of them were always green and verdant.

They crossed the rolling hills of Norvos, past terraced farms and small villages where the townsfolk watched anxiously from atop white stucco walls. They forded three wide placid rivers and a fourth that was swift and narrow and treacherous, camped beside a high blue waterfall, skirted the tumbled ruins of a vast dead city where ghosts were said to moan among blackened marble columns. They raced down Valyrian roads a thousand years old and straight as a Dothraki arrow. For half a moon, they rode through the Forest of Qohor, where the leaves made a golden canopy high above them, and the trunks of the trees were as wide as city gates. There were great elk in that wood, and spotted tigers, and lemurs with silver fur and huge purple eyes, but all fled before the approach of the khalasar and Dany got no glimpse of them.

By then her agony was a fading memory. She still ached after a long day's riding, yet somehow the pain had a sweetness to it now, and each morning she came willingly to her saddle, eager to know what wonders waited for her in the lands ahead. She began to find pleasure even in her nights, and if she still cried out when Drogo took her, it was not always in pain.

At the bottom of the ridge, the grasses rose around her, tall and supple. Dany slowed to a trot and rode out onto the plain, losing herself in the green, blessedly alone. In the khalasar she was never alone. Khal Drogo came to her only after the sun went down, but her handmaids fed her and bathed her and slept by the door of her tent, Drogo's bloodriders and the men of her khas were never far, and her brother was an unwelcome shadow, day and night. Dany could hear him on the top of the ridge, his voice shrill with anger as he shouted at Ser Jorah. She rode on, submerging herself deeper in the Dothraki sea.

The green swallowed her up. The air was rich with the scents of earth and grass, mixed with the smell of horseflesh and Dany's sweat and the oil in her hair. Dothraki smells. They seemed to belong here. Dany breathed it all in, laughing. She had a sudden urge to feel the ground beneath her, to curl her toes in that thick black soil. Swinging down from her saddle, she let the silver graze while she pulled off her high boots.

Viserys came upon her as sudden as a summer storm, his horse rearing beneath him as he reined up too hard. "You dare!" he screamed at her. "You give commands to me? To me?" He vaulted off the horse, stumbling as he landed. His face was flushed as he struggled back to his feet. He grabbed her, shook her. "Have you forgotten who you are? Look at you. Look at you!"

Dany did not need to look. She was barefoot, with oiled hair, wearing Dothraki riding leathers and a painted vest given her as a bride gift. She looked as though she belonged here. Viserys was soiled and stained in city silks and ringmail.

He was still screaming. "You do not command the dragon. Do you understand? I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, I will not hear orders from some horselord's slut, do you hear me?" His hand went under her vest, his fingers digging painfully into her breast. "Do you hear me?

She moved to shove him, then everything went mad.

A great clap of thunder hurled them apart, and Dany tumbled, slamming into the ground. She was vaguely aware of a burning smell in the air, and the sound of her silver screaming, the drumming of hooves. She got to her feet painfully. Then she blinked in surprise.

For a moment, she didn’t understand what she was seeing in the slightest. Four people stood in a rough circle, looking at each other. Moments later, a fifth appeared, falling out of midair. One of them, a large man, in black armor, seemed the most surprised of them all, backing away quickly, hand going to the sword hilt that jutted over one shoulder. He, at least, was in clothing she could understand, something like Westerosi armor, but the rest...she could not place them, their clothing heavy and foreign, though finely made, white coats over dark pants. Three of them, a tall, redheaded woman, and two men- boys, really- one blonde, one gray. The fifth, still obscured by the grasses as they managed to reach a sitting position, appeared to have white hair, some form of finely sewn black vest and short pants with a multitude of pockets on each. On standing they turned out to be another woman, her moonlit hair reaching roughly to midback- she appeared only a few years older than Daenerys herself.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then the red-haired woman started yelling at the man, who backed away still further, raising his hands defensively. Dany realized she hadn't the slightest idea what the strangers were saying. She could hear a few words that might- _might_ \- be Westerosi, but the rest of their speech was nigh on incomprehensible.

As the strangers broke the silence the white haired girl simply looked around, appraising the situation, finally settling on the area around Daenerys but not herself. Her eyes had a light from within, dark blue in the right, bright blue in the left.

One of them, the blonde one, glanced her way, then jumped in surprise, adding his babble to the argument. Both the woman and the armored man turned to look at her, and the woman started talking again. Dany raised her hands helplessly, and shook her head. The armored man looked at a point above and behind her, then stepped back, eyes wide. Dany looked, but nothing was there.

A groan announced that her brother was still very much alive, at the same time as the thunder of hoofbeats announced the arrival of her khas. “Khaleesi! We-” Irri cut herself off as she spotted the strangers. The Dothraki stared as well, hands on their arakhs. The grey-haired boy started edging away from the crowd of mounted men, while the white haired girl seemed to tilt her head some as if listening to an unheard conversation. One of the Dothraki spoke. “Jhogo asks if we should take them to meet the other strangers, khaleesi,” Irri said, watching the strange men and woman warily. “Other strangers?” Dany said, slowly. Finally the white haired girl spoke, her accent foreign even compared to her companions. But, thankfully, the language was unmistakably High Valyrian,

 

"Considering they," she motioned to the men of the khas, "defer to you, I'd presume you hold power over them?"

 

Dany blinked, relief that one of the strangers could speak sense warring with surprise. “Y-yes. As Khal Drogo’s khaleesi, his wife,” she explained rapidly. She shifts her gaze to her followers. “Take them.” The Dothraki advance, and the black-armored man turns to face them, hand going to his sword. This prompts an answering motion from Ser Jorah. Daenerys turns back to the girl, and indicates her companions. “Tell them they won’t be harmed,” she says hurriedly. The girl turns and begins speaking, and Daenerys can tell the difference between how she speaks to the armored man, the woman, and the grey-haired boy. The armored man nods reluctantly, and takes his hand off the sword. The girl turned back to Daenerys, switching back to High Valyrian. “So.. khaleesi of Drogo's name.. where are we to be taken?...if I understood correctly, your men said something about other strangers?"

Daenerys folded her arms and waited for Irri to explain.

“Khaleesi, they appeared in a metal wagon, in the midst of the khalasar. Three of them, dressed the same as them.” She indicated the woman, and the two boys. “They do not want to come out.” The handmaid shivered. “It must be magic, for it to appear so.”

Dany shook her head, and nodded to the strange girl. “Khal Drogo will want to meet with you, and your friends in their wagon. Jhogo, Maego, Rakharo, Irri, Arro, ride double.” She pointed to each of the strangers in turn. The armored man, though, shook his head, and the grey-haired boy refused to move, even as the woman, girl, and blonde boy mounted easily enough. A stream of words was exchanged between the woman and the armored man, before he sighed and physically picked up the boy, starting a loping run for the ridge.

She pulled on her boots, and remounted her silver as one of her khas brought it back, then looked at her brother, still senseless on the ground. She thought on his behavior, and nodded to herself. “Let him find his own way back,” she instructed her khas, before wheeling the silver around and following the strange man's trail. Her khas followed.


	2. Jón

Well, this day could have gone _much_ better. Jón loped through the strange grass towards the ridgeline the dragon-girl had indicated. He shuddered involuntarily, then forced himself to stop as he felt his burden shift slightly. He couldn't believe the sheer size of the girl’s companion spirit. No wonder she commanded these horsemen. He could feel Grim's agreement as well, and a hint of ironic humor. The fylgja was used to being the big one, not tiny.

Then there was the Finn he was currently carrying. Weird fellow, even as Finns went. Though he understood the reluctance to get on a strange mount, this was a little ridiculous.

As was his entire situation, come to think of it. He’d been trying to make a helm, not be sent to another world entirely. Or, for that matter, to drag a bunch of random strangers into it. Especially Nordic soldiers. He has no desire to get dragged back there, ever. He resolved to find out more, as clandestinely as possible. They didn’t know he spoke Swedish, or Icelandic, they’d be easy to fool--- no, that was the _Germanorum_  paranoia talking. Best to lay his cards out as soon as possible, clear the air with them. Especially the red-haired woman. She scared him, to be honest.

And, finally, strangest of all, the white-haired girl. He’d seen how she and the dragon had talked, and he could guess the purpose of the spell it had cast on her, given that she could speak the local language. He didn’t like it, though. The pair of spirits that were her companions were more worrisome still.

Jón felt the boy he is carrying stiffen suddenly, fingers digging into him, and he didn't need magical eyesight to know the dragon was right beside them. He turned, and nodded to the beast’s massive head, larger than him and the boy put together. “You got something to say, firewyrm?” he asked, trying to keep his tone soft and detached. He had a suspicion that showing weakness would get him killed.

The dragon chuckled. _You interest me, war-wizard,_ it said, voice a rumble. _You reek of fire and blood, my companion’s family words, and yet you are no Valyrian. Nor of this world at all. And then there is your closeness with your own companion…_

“Grim? You mean that ain’t normal for you?” Jón said out the side of his mouth, and the dragon sighed. _Not at all, little one._

“Pity. I wish you luck,” Jón said, trying to keep his legs from dropping from under him. The boy began struggling, and Jón paused to put him down, looking into those cat-like eyes, before pointing towards the ridge line. The boy took off running.

The pause was enough for the dragon’s owner and her translators, both of them, to catch up. Jón could hear the low tones of their language, but understood none of it. He gritted his teeth in frustration. “You made her able to speak it,” he said to the dragon, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the foxling girl. “Can you do the same for me? And whatever it is the horsemen speak.”

_No._

“Why?”

 _The shard from the old ranger was the last that spoke Valyrian, and I think he and the girl are too alike to separate again._ The dragon smirks. _And because leaving you in the same position as the rest of your new companions will be... amusing._

“Well fuck you too, you overgrown lizard,” Jón said, faux-flippantly. He sped back up, catching up to the grey-haired boy with ease. They crested the ridge, and both stopped dead, in pure and utter shock. The camp was _huge._ He tried keeping track of the number of men and horses he saw, and lost count almost instantly. But it was undisciplined, chaotic. This was no soldier’s camp. This was a horde, one that made trolls and giants look puny. And all human- he could see the ghostly shapes of their companion spirits following them.

And then there was the tank. It looked like an overgrown cat, with the triangular floodlights and the low, lean body. Grooves in the metal around the headlights even gave the impression of whiskers. Jón paused, taking in the wary circle of horsemen around it. They almost seemed afraid of it.

The boy began to back away, but was blocked by the arrival of the dragon-girl and her escorts. Their passengers dropped to the ground quickly, and the red-hair woman started towards the tank. One of the riders in the circle moved to block her path, hand on his curved sword. A word from the dragon-girl, translated by her servant, and the man backed his horse away. The red-haired woman grinned insolently. “Would be a pity if you tried anything. I haven’t gotten to punch anything in _days_ ,” she said in Norwegian. Though there was no way the warrior could have understood her, her tone was perfectly obvious, and his face twisted in anger as he drew his sword. Jón sighed internally, and _moved_ , drawing on the countless wards and enhancements laced through his armor.

To the observing Dothraki and Nordics both, it seemed as if he had simply teleported to a new location. His claymore was held in one hand, the massive blade pressed against the Dothraki’s throat. The horseman’s sword fell in two pieces to the ground behind him. Jon nods to the red-haired woman. “Never did catch your name. Would be bad manners to let you get hurt before that,” he said lightly, in Swedish.

“Sigrun,” the redhead said, eyeing the carefully non-moving Dothraki with appreciation. “Nice work,” she finally said. “But can you not hurt him? The rest look nervous.”

As if to punctuate this, the sound of arrows being nocked resounded throughout the area as every Dothraki drew on Jón. He heard dragon-girl utter something that, language barrier or not, was almost certainly a particularly vehement curse, and he turned his head just enough to see the foxling had found a horse of her own at some point. Probably because dragon-girl had wanted more private conversation. Foxling spoke up in Danish. “The khaleesi would…” -she paused, evidently trying to find the best way to say it- “...prefer you _not_ start a bloodbath in the Khal’s camp.” She then began speaking to dragon-girl again, back into that incomprehensible tongue.

Jón shrugged, moving the blade slightly farther away, before turning back to Sigrun. “Jón Hermansson, alchemist. Pleasure to meet you.” Quick as a flash, the blade was back in its scabbard, and Jón stooped, retrieving the remnants of the Dothraki’s blade. “Good steel,” he remarked briefly, fitting the pieces together. To the gray-haired boy and the foxling, a flare of magic would be seen along the line of the break, but the rest would remain blessedly ignorant. He handed the whole blade up to the warrior, and shrugged apologetically. The warrior, eyes wide, took the sword slowly, as the other horsemen relaxed minutely, lowering their weapons. Jon motioned to the tank. “Who’s the rest of your crew, if I may ask?”

“Blondie’s Emil, our Cleanser. Twig over there is Lalli, our scout and mage. In there…” she pointed to the silent vehicle. “Mikkel, Tuuri, and Reynir. Medic and cook, mechanic and skald, and random stowaway, respectively.” The door to the tank opened, and a very large, very blonde man stepped out, regarding the encircling horde of savage horsemen with practiced apathy. A short, rotund girl, with the same hair as Lalli, peeked out from behind him, as a tall, incredibly skinny red-haired boy, his hair in a braid that frankly staggered belief, stepped out of the tank, a small cat twining around his ankles. The Dothraki muttered and pointed at the boy, and he looked around in confusion. “What?” he asked, in Icelandic. Jón relayed this to the foxling. A short conversation with dragon-girl followed, and the foxling girl frowned. “Evidently, the Dothraki grow their braids until they are defeated. Since your...friend over there has such a long braid, they think he must be a great warrior of some sort.”

Sigrun visibly restrained a laugh, and Jón could swear he saw Lalli give the slightest of smiles after the foxling repeated herself in Finnish.

The boy looked around again, further confused, and Jón translated the foxling’s statement into Icelandic. His eyes widened, and he backed away. The foxling sighed. “Why do I suspect we’re going to have to train him?” she muttered, and Jón tilted his head in acknowledgement. Grim stalked towards the boy, Reynir, obviously the stowaway, and he looked straight at the fylgja, eyes widening still further. “Easy,” Jón cautioned. “He’s friendly. Where's yours?”

As if on cue, a sheepdog fylgja materialized next to Reynir, standing protectively between him and Grim, and Jón nodded. The boy was definitely a mage. “Short of it is, they might try to fight you, since they think you're an undefeated warrior. Foxling-”

“Lyra,” the white-haired girl interrupted.

“-over there and I would like to prevent a bloodbath, so we'll have to train you. Anyone know where the head honcho is?”

Lyra translated, but there was no need. One of the Dothraki dismounted, walking towards their little group. He was tall, with a long black braid that reached nearly to his waist, filled with bells. Jón watched the man, and instantly knew two things: first, that this was definitely Khal Drogo, dragon-girl’s husband, and second, that if it ever came down to a straight fight between the two of them, no magic, wards, or enhancements, he would be the one left bleeding. Jón nodded to Sigrun. “He’s your stowaway. Want to talk it out with Barbarian McMuscles over there?” The Norwegian laughed, and practically swaggered over to the horselord, sticking out her hand. “Captain Sigrun Eide. And you are?”

A brief relay of words went from Lyra to dragon-girl to dragon-girl's servant before the Khal finally spoke. "I don't care who you are....” -Lyra paused in her translation, coming up with a polite equivalent- “...woman. Where is your khal, it means leader, so I might test him in battle and see if you are worthy of joining my khalasar, or whether I should take your cart and the women for my own."

To her immense credit, Sigrun didn't immediately hit the horselord in the face. She took a deep breath instead, then released it. “What happens if we don’t want either of those options?” she asked carefully. A flash of hand signals passed between her and Lalli, and the scout began to shepherd his blonde companion into the vehicle. The remaining three Nordics exchanged looks, and disappeared into the tank, Mikkel shoving the others inside.

Lyra switched to Danish. “We probably don't have much choice in the matter. He has the forces to overwhelm us through numbers alone, and having them at least tolerate our existence is probably our best bet for our continued survival.”

The Khal spoke, a short, declarative statement. Lyra frowned as she translated. “My bloodriders spoke of a great warrior here. Bring him to me.”

Lyra shifted in her saddle, preparing to jump down and answer, but then paused. She looked Jón in the eyes, mismatched blues meeting iron gray. “Would you answer his challenge? At least to ensure we live to see the morrow.” She paused. “Try not to kill him.”

Jón nodded. “I’ll fight for them. Give me an hour's time, and access to some iron, and the Khal will have his fight.”

  
The translation chain happened once again for a few moments, then the khal growled something to his bloodriders, before shouting out orders and stomping off. Moments later, the entire khalasar was in motion, setting up their encampment around the tank, encircling them while leaving a decent clearing around it.  
Lyra shrugged as the translation reached her.  
"We make camp here, the outlander will have his time and iron,” she relayed. Jón grinned.


	3. Lyra

The ranger sighed and sat down near where Jón was working on something, mulling things over, and trying to make sense of what seemed like days, but had, in reality, been only a few hours at best. Despite what seemed like the impossibility of it all, reality having warped in on itself and spat her out in what seemed like another world, she'd fallen back on her training to pick up any and all useful information. However, coming face to face with a spirit in the guise of a dragon had shaken her, the conversation that followed had confused her, and what it had done, some form of spell it seemed, had left the ranger feeling at war with her own self as memories and knowledge not her own had flooded her mind. She had closed her eyes, almost falling into a meditative trance and into her haven, to try to sort through the chaos of her own mind, when Jón's question snapped her back to reality. "..I..wha?..." she shook her head and blinked a little, not sure even how long it had been since she sat down. "My apologies, I was not even focusing on the present... what did you just say?"

The warrior grinned. “Just asking who you are. Strange to find a person like you, with stranger magic,” he said in German. He set an iron ingot in the center of the design he’d scratched into the dirt- a central circle of unidentifiable symbols, with lines leading out to other, smaller, more complex circles. Jón added a few more ingots to the center, occasionally checking an open book that he'd pulled from his pack. “I’d like to know who got dragged along with me and the Nords. You don't look like one, though you speak their language well enough.”

She sat there quietly before speaking up again in Danish. "I don't really know enough German to hold a conversation... I got the gist of your question though." She paused, watching and looking over what she could see of the book that Jón had produced and what he was doing with the runes and symbols. After some time silent, she spoke up again, "Lyra Shadowstalker, Ashlands Ranger of Val- I mean Pele's Refuge. I was with a team acting as recon to find other pockets of people that had survived.. we've been stuck in Finland after an engine failure forced our plane down...mmm..I'd say two years ago or so..."  
  
It didn't show on her face, but she wasn't sure anymore how much of that was her own memories, and how much of that was "her" memories. The ranger was finding enough similarities between the mixed memories as she tried to sort them out, neither set had truly known their homelands as both had had catastrophic events destroy them, and they had both been trained from a young age to fight the former residents that had been twisted and changed by some form of disease.

Jón nodded. “Couple of years ago...I wasn't in the best state, but I think I would remember proof of other survivors being found. You laying low, or did the Council decide a cover-up was the best option?” There's something bitter in his tone as he said it. He checked the circle and the book again, nodding to himself, before looking back at Lyra. “Think you can put a shield around me when I do this?” he asked.

“We've been keeping our head down, that and the Finns never have really liked the council... or, well, anyone they consider foreign conquerors, if I remember the pre-blight history right....what kind of shield are you talking about?"  
“Something that contains magic. Put it around me and the circle,” Jón elaborated, gesturing. “I was doing this when I got sent here, and I’d rather not force everyone else to find out if it was the cause of our... transportation.” He paused. “What about the tank people? What do you think their deal is?”

“So... two shells?” Lyra asked. “One around you both, and then a smaller one around just the circle?" Jón nodded.

  
She stood up and began drawing out strings of magic while walking around Jon as she wrote the runes in the air, each one shimmering in the air with a silver light that would only be visible to the various mages in the camp.  
  
"What do you mean "what's their deal?” she asked as she worked, “like what they were doing or something else?"  
  
She finished her walk around Jón before circling around again examining the runes, which were her own mix of two or three rune styles, while adding another rune here or there. The additions were all the same, and they drew in magic from the air as blue energized lines of magic began to form, creating what was quickly becoming a strong net that would, she calculated, likely contain an angered mage fully focused on blasting magefire everywhere.

Jón examined the runework with interest before answering her question. “Too many nationalities in too small a team, so they’re not military. Not an official mission, at any rate,” he said. “And they brought a skald along. Why? So, yes, I’d very much like to know what they were doing. Might just be paranoia talking, but not knowing their mission makes me nervous.”

She shrugged, "What Tuuri said, when she turned me down on working on our plane, was that she'd been offered work on a private expedition, backed by the council."

Jón's eyes widened. “Never thought I'd see the day that happened. Interesting.”

Lyra worked the second shield, closing it around the assemblage of circles, before asking her next question.  
"So... what is it you're..doing here? The spell I mean..and did when we got pulled here?"

Jón pointed to the central circle. “Making a helm. The center molds it-” he pointed to a circle to the left, nearly as large “-that protects it, from both blade and spirit-” he waved at a line of three circles, connected to the other two “-and those feed them both.” He shrugged. “Let's hope it works this time.”

He bent over the circle, checked his book one last time, and spoke a single word. _“Excudo.”_

The pile of iron ingots bent and shifted, molded by an unseen hand, as the circles blazed with orange-gold magelight, overlapping and strengthening each other. When it finally dissipated, a helm sat where the ingots had been, formed into the shape of a snarling wolf’s head, black as the rest of Jón's armor. The warrior nodded to her. “You can drop the shields now. Guess this wasn’t the cause, after all.”

She nodded, and moved around the circle again, making a cutting motion towards three of the runes in sequence. The entire ward net dissipated into magic vapors.  
  
"I would have to agree... the echo of that didn't even feel remotely like the magic that pulled me here....." she said quietly.  
  
She paused for a bit admiring the creation before speaking again, " I gathered more information from the khaleesi regarding the type of challenge you'll be facing...the Dothraki frown on using armor heavier than leather, they consider it a sign of weakness. She also believes you can secure our survival by simply giving him a good fight, a couple of nicks but nothing serious, long enough to exhaust him some, but not long enough to frustrate him, while not making him look bad in front of his khalassar... so you'll have to get hit a few times probably..."

 

Jón frowned. “Won’t be difficult. He’s better than me, probably faster as well. I’ve got strength and reach, though...hrrm.” He frowned again, and began removing his armor, starting with the bracers that covered his forearms and extended over the backs of his hands. “Have to wonder what _her_ game is as well...and why she's married to a man who doesn't even speak her language.”

She shrugged, not having weaseled out the details from Daenerys yet. "Do.. you need a hand with that?"

Jón bent over to remove his greaves, unknotting the ties that held them on his shins, and nodded. “Buckles on the back, hold the breastplate on,” he said shortly. “Can do it myself, but easier if someone else does.”  
Lyra waited until Jón had stood back up before moving to undo the breastplate buckles. "I saw the khal's men cutting a swath of grass and stomping the dirt flat, so there's probably no terrain advantages either." With the armor now undone she caught the back piece, a thick band of leather, rather than let it fall to the ground.  
Once she had set it down, one of her fox spirits approached her, carrying another of those compact spell shards which she absorbed on contact.

Jón nodded. “It's going to be a hard fight, especially without my armor to draw on. But if he is out for just blood, not my life, we’ll be fine, hopefully.”

As they were talking, she could feel that her other foxling had warily approached the warrior's companion spirit- Grim, he had called it- and offered it a shard of some form of spell, saying "My master couldn't determine what the spirit did to her, however this shard carries relevant portions of language from the knight...the dragon girl speaks this language as well."

The giant wolf spirit regarded the shard warily, before blue-white magic blazed around it, engulfing the shard and withdrawing just as swiftly. The wolf nodded, taking the shard in it’s jaws and trotting over to Jón, before placing it against the warrior, where it melted into him. Jón stiffened abruptly.

“Shadow make a copy of that for you too?" she asked him, noting his expression, knowing what was happening, a small flood of information filling his mind as he rapidly gained proficiency in the Westerosi language, both written and spoken, including general concepts and information a speaker of the language would understand.

Lyra was not as overwhelmed by the information that she had received though, long since used to the sensation,  and she began testing out the new language, swapping between it, Valyrian and Danish with little effort, before swapping to Westerosi for now. “Well?”

Jón nodded, slowly, and spoke carefully. “So that's your companion's name,” he said. “Good to know. It normal for him to split like that?” he asked, indicating the pair.

She shook her head. "No..that's only something she figured out recently...I think it's almost time."  
She motioned towards a crowd of Dothraki that had started to form around the ring that had been made over the last hour.

Jón looked at the ring, and nodded nervously, stretching slightly before walking into it.

 

Nearby, Daenerys and Ser Mormont stood under a silk shade, watching, while Sigrun and Emil had scaled the side of the tank to watch from above. The latter appeared to have a complement of firebombs in his jacket, which he was wearing despite the oppressive heat of the midday sun, while the expedition captain was only wearing her boots, pants and a tank top. The remainder of the crew was presumably inside, in case things went sideways. To anyone who had been watching, she was out of sight, having vanished after a messenger from the khaleesi had relayed a message in Valyrian to her. But while it seemed that Lyra had vanished without a trace, she had instead slipped through the camp, before finding a hooded set of robes to "borrow". A quick scan of the crowd might have revealed her mismatched eyes, glowing just a little bit more prominently under the shadow of the hood than out in daylight, but at least she was much harder to find in the crowd, without her white hair catching the light.

Viserys made his presence known by making a ruckus as he tried to find out what was going on with Mormont, at Daenerys's prompting, explaining that the khal had challenged the strangers for their iron cart and women, and that the ‘dark knight’ had answered the challenge. Strangely enough, this had calmed Viserys some, and he was silent, for now.

 

Silence, broken only by the gentle jingle of bells filled the air as Drogo strode through the part in the crowd pausing to appraise Jón for a moment, before stretching and popping his neck audibly. His Westerosi was deeply accented and a little broken. “I had hoped to peel you from your armor like hard wine in a broken vase, but you are no coward. Prove you can champion the iron tiger, and I will use my woman's guidance."

Jón took a necklace from his pocket, and, drawing his sword, swifty tied it to the weapon’s crossguard. A silver-and-iron cross swung from the necklace as the warrior lifted the massive blade into a stylized guard, straight up. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Jón intoned solemnly, speaking Swedish, “I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me, Lord.” This said, he gripped the weapon's hilt in both hands, lowering it. “Bring it, Braidy,” he added in Westerosi.

The Khal slowly stalked around the ring, circling Jon, his curved arakh at the ready, waiting for Jón to make the first move.  
  
Lyra and the rest of the khalasar watched silently. For a brief moment she had considered using some form of magic to tilt the fight, but she wasn't sure whose pride would be wounded more if she'd done that.  
  
With the sun now to his back, Drogo struck, sweeping his arakh at chest level, followed by a second and third strike to probe at Jón's defense.

 

Jón stepped out of the first strike, and deflected the follow-ups, before moving to attack on his own, blade a blur. A frenzied blur of motion erupted as the two strove to pierce the other’s defenses, circling slightly, before they parted rapidly. The left side of Jón’s face had been laid open to the bone from jaw to cheekbone, while Drogo’s left shoulder boasted a deep cut. The khal’s sword was notched heavily along the cutting edge as well. Jón was fighting edge-to-edge, foolish normally, but she suspected that blade wasn't ordinary metal, and he knew it.

A murmur rose through the crowd as the khal swung once more at Jón, the force of his strike causing the arakh to snap in two when Jon deflected the strike.   
  
At first, it seemed Drogo's bloodriders were about to rush to the aid of their khal, until Drogo began to laugh, as he tossed the remains of the arakh towards one of the onlookers. "You are good. You keep your life today, and your iron cart. It would bring great honor to this khalasar if you rode with us, dark knight."  
  
Without waiting for a response, he walked back to his pavilion as a set of slaves rushed to tend to his wound.  
  
As the crowd began to disperse, Lyra did her best to make her way to Jón, mentally going through the spells she knew, and finding many additions she didn't fully remember or comprehend fully. She was a mere three steps away when the Westerosi knight caught her by the arm. "The khaleesi wishes to speak with you in private, 'Valyrian'." Even had she not known what was being said, the tone of Mormont's speech made his mistrust clear.

Jón wheeled on the balding knight, half his face covered in blood from the wound Drogo's arakh had inflicted, and spat blood. He shook his head, and motioned to the deep wound on his cheek. Lyra could see the gleam of teeth in the depths of the cut.  
“He comes too,” she said, pulling loose of the knight's grasp as he recoiled from the sight of Jón's face. "How are you not screaming in pain?" he whispered.

Lyra, having seen much worse due to the Blight, shrugged and formed a spell foci around her right hand as she stepped up to Jón, "This is going to sting,” she warned as she pressed the magic into his wound, the damaged flesh melted and knit itself back together.  
  
The Westerosi knight stared as Lyra handed over her bandana to Jón.

“Cover it up, enough people saw how deep the cut was... don't want the whole camp talking,” she instructed. Jón nodded, and tied the bandana off so the that the wound, and much of his face by extension, was covered. “To answer your question, I’ve had far worse," the big man said to Mormont. His hand drifted to the right side of his chest almost unconsciously before he shrugged and lifted his sword, cleaning the blade with a rag produced from a pocket in his pants before untying the necklace and returning both items to their pockets. He sheathed the blade, and nodded to Mormont.

Finally Mormont had composed himself enough to talk again. "What are you?"  
She shrugged again, "What part of 'Valyrian Ranger' do you Westerosians not understand?.. so...are we going to keep the khaleesi waiting?"

  
After a few tense moments, Mormont turned, and motioned for the two of them to follow along. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Some of you might be wondering- "Why is the Dothraki warlord being so welcoming? He didn't kill anyone!"
> 
> The meta reason for this is that a TPK is never a good place to start.
> 
> Story-wise, my reasoning is that while Drogo may be barbaric and homicidal, he's not an idiot. A group of people who have a giant metal tiger and some strong warriors at their side are not to be trifled with. He'll keep an eye on them, and be cautious about their magic, real or perceived, but outright slaughter will be avoided.  
> For now.


	4. Tuuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, folks.

She hadn't thought things could get more exotic than the Silent World, yet here she was, gone from repairing the tank yet again to being dragged into a whole other world. And then, of course, a whole other culture, in a place she'd never thought could exist. A veritable sea of grass, as far as the eye could see.

The first night had been terrifying, to be honest. After the man in black armor had fought the person called Drogo, she'd been certain the camp would descend on them. Especially after Jón- which was what Sigrun said his name was- and the ranger from the east, Lyra, had been seemingly dragged off by one of the silver haired girl's companions, to not be seen again. Tuuri barely slept, more afraid of the strange horsemen than she had ever been of the trolls.

But the next morning, Jón, wearing Lyra’s bandana over the lower half of his face, arrived to translate for Drogo, as the latter's servants attempted to hitch several great horses to the front of the tank as the great camp- more people than she’d ever seen in her life, more even than in Mora- was being broken down.  
  
"He wants the ‘iron tiger’ at the head of the khalasar...the front of the line more or less, but not ahead of him,” Jón explained. “I don't think any of them understand how a vehicle works,” he added with a shrug. “You want to show them?”

 

Tuuri couldn't restrain the mischievous smile that crossed her face at that invitation, as she nodded and darted back inside the tank. A quick check revealed that everyone else had already left, except for Lalli and Emil, who appeared to both be catching up on some much-needed sleep, her cousin in his usual spot under the Swede's bunk. She waved to the Jón and Drogo from her position behind the windshield, then started the engine.  
The Khal and his servants backed out of the tank's path hurriedly, the horses rearing at the roar of the engine, as she pushed the accelerator gently. She could see Drogo standing in the side window, muttering to himself, as the machine moved past at a decent trot, engine running smoothly for once.  
Try as she might, the girl didn't seem to see a sign of Lyra. However, she saw Mikkel astride a dark horse, and Sigrun appeared to be having fun breaking in the wild-eyed paint horse she'd found among the loose horses. Both of them had ditched their heavy jackets in the tank and were being assisted some by the silver haired girl's attendants, as she and a man who looked to be her brother, or cousin, watched from atop their own steeds.  
Reynir, who'd she'd missed somehow, popped his head into the command cabin and looked around, chattering in Icelandic, "We're moving? Why are we moving? Are they trying to get in and steal my hair?"

Tuuri laughed. She'd heard what the Dothraki thought of Reynir, but she didn't think they’d go that far. “We're going to be at the front when they ride off,” she explained, “and your hair is safe. For now,” she added deviously.

Reynir gulped, grabbed at his braid protectively, and leaned against the wall.  
Sigrun finally had her horse under control, and along with Mikkel had joined up with the silver haired girl's group, which was now riding ahead, giving Tuuri a direction to follow. The khal and his bloodriders caught up soon after she stopped, preparing to lead the whole procession.

 

There was a knock on the tank's hull, and Tuuri looked into the side mirror to see Jón with a quartet of horses- one gray, one roan, and a pair of blacks.

Lalli entered, rubbing his eyes sleepily, before looking at the mirror. “What's he want?” he muttered in Finnish.

“Probably wants you to ride with him and the others.” She looked at Reynir, then Emil, who yawned as he entered the crowded cabin, and repeated her answer in Icelandic and Swedish. Reynir grinned, while Emil simply looked nervous, shaking his head. “Someone should, ah, stay with the tank,” he said briefly.

Lalli shrugged, and, shedding his heavy jacket, left the tank. Tuuri saw him stare at Jón, then the horses, before mounting the gray one gracefully. Reynir followed Lalli out as well, talked to Jón briefly, and was helped into the roan’s saddle by the big man. He seemed both uneasy and excited. The remaining horse was taken away by one of the attendants, while Jón swung into the remaining black’s saddle with a motion that was half efficiency, half showmanship. The trio moved off, Jón looking foreboding, the wolfshead helm on the horn of his saddle, Reynir clinging to the reins in near-desperation, and Lalli sitting straight-backed, looking serenely unbothered by everything.

 

With a shout from the Khal, the entire horde began to move. Tuuri took a few seconds to abandon her cold weather gear in the growing pile in the decontamination room before revving the engine again and pulling the tank in behind the group. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, wishing she knew what the people were saying. Jón seemed to know, and Lyra too, but that was probably because they had, as her cousin had put it last night, 'weird magic'. _She_ had to make do with books and listening to learn new languages.

The day passed uneventfully enough, the tank forging though tall grasses, with the vast numbers of horsemen behind, and a small number ahead. Even Emil managed to loosen up, though he still glared at every Dothraki that came near the tank. Despite the heat of the day, he kept his jacket on. Animated discussion continued between Reynir, Jón, and the Khal. At one point, the copper-skinned horseman halted abruptly and began laughing uproariously, his shoulders shaking, Jón grinning in response. Even the silver-haired girl smiled. Other times, there were talks between Sigrun and Drogo, Jón translating, with much pointing at Tuuri in the tank.

As the afternoon wore on, the grassy plain began to grow hillier, as the grasses changed from species of thick tall bunchgrasses, to fine hairlike ones, knee deep with a slight blue hue to them.

A shallow river had sprung up along their path of travel by the time night started to fall. Several men returned from riding ahead of the khalasar, likely to report to Drogo on the terrain ahead. The horde's momentum began to slow, and men began to set up camp near the river.

Tuuri exited the tank with a sigh of relief, Emil following cautiously. He carried his rifle, she noticed.

Lalli dismounted slowly, keeping away from the others, and she went to him first. “What were they saying? Anything interesting?” she asked.

Her cousin shook his head. “Don’t know. The dragon lady is pregnant, though.”

Tuuri took this in stride. “Oh, alright. Does she know?”

Lalli nodded, slowly, and Tuuri smiled, before leaving Emil and Lalli to their own devices, and looking for Sigrun.

She was found Drogo, instead. The tall warlord looked at her carefully, and she took a step back, nervous. He said something in that strange language- Westerosi, she think Lyra had called it- and she shook her head, not understanding.

“He asks why, if you can drive the tank, that you serve Sigrun instead of working on your own,” Jón said from over her shoulder, and Tuuri jumped. “Don’t _do_ that,” she said heatedly, and the big man, carrying that helm of his under one arm, raised an eyebrow. She looked back at Drogo, and paused, trying to think of an explanation. “Well, Sigrun’s in charge because she's the most experienced, the one who knows how to deal with trolls, keep everyone alive,” she finally says, hearing Jón translate from her accented Swedish to Westerosi, trying to figure out how the language worked. Drogo nodded, and spoke again.

“He asks if it is normal for women to fight, where you come from,” Jón supplied.

Tuuri nods, and Drogo tilted his head, before another flood of Westerosi came. “He thinks trolls must be weak, if women can kill them,” Jón said, eyes narrowing, and Tuuri shook her head emphatically, before holding up a hand and dashing back inside the tank. She dug through papers and old reports frantically, before she finally found what she wanted- a slim book, cover blank. She carried it out to the waiting group, and flipped through it before finding the drawing she wanted, the one she’d made after their first stop, the one Emil had blown up.

A gaping, flabby face grinned out from the paper, broken teeth shining, claws at the ready. Tuuri had made sure to get it as close to what Sigrun had described as possible. Emil hadn't been much help, half-terrified out of his mind, but Sigrun had been unshaken. She showed it to Drogo.

The Khal studied the sketch for a moment, before asking a string of questions. “He wants to know details- how big, how fast, et cetera.” Tuuri shrugged. “Ask Sigrun. She was there,” she said quietly. “They don’t have the Rash here?” she asked, and Jón shook his head. “So far as I can tell, no.” His finger tapped the sketchbook. “Can I keep this? To show him?” he asked.

Tuuri paused. “Only if you help me learn their languages,” she said. Jón said something to Drogo, and the warlord grinned, saying something back. “Daenerys, his wife, the silver-haired woman, she is teaching him,” Jón said. “He says one who can master a beast of iron is welcome to sit by even the highest of khals. That’s an yes, I think.” Tuuri nodded, reluctantly surrendering the sketchbook.

Sigrun approached shortly afterward, grinning like a loon.

“He wants you to tell him about trolls,” Jón said shortly.

“Oh, they're not much trouble if they don’t get surrounded,” the hunter said brightly. “Most are about the same size of any of us, considering where they came from. Some can be right nasty, though. Killed one with my teeth once, you know.”

The Khal lifted an eyebrow as Jón translated this last.

“Impressive. But if that is all there is to these ‘trolls’, how are they so dangerous? They sound no more trouble than a medium sized tiger."

 

“They were once men? It sounded like that, when you said where they came from,” a balding man, in armor, said as he walked up.

Jón, Tuuri and Sigrun nod at the same time. “You want to tell him, or should I?” Sigrun asked Jón. The black-armored warrior shrugged. “I’ll do it. Stay, though. He’s going to probably be more respectful after he hears everything,” he muttered.

Sigrun nodded, and glanced at Tuuri. “You might be able to add something. Stay, and listen,” she added.

Tuuri nodded in response. “Right.”

And so, Jón launched into the tale of the Old World, one they all knew well. Its countless numbers, the wondrous machines and medicines, the great green lands it occupied. Tuuri, Sigrun, and even Mikkel added in details as needed. Then, Jón said, the Rash came. An innocuous enough illness at first, some itching and a nasty rash for a short time, but it spread rapidly. Then it began to kill. Eight of every ten died. One was immune. And one...they became monsters, twisted beings of rotting flesh and bone, with a need to kill. Only cold and sunlight stopped them, things only the enclaves of the far north possessed in abundance. Some places in the south, in mountains called the Alps, survived as well, Jón revealed, and others in the cold tundra of Russia, but none intact, save the lonely island of Iceland. Slowly, inch by inch, the survivors toiled, taking back ground from the Blight and it's twisted remnants, that still threatened those who were not immune with a fate worse than death. Jón spoke of trolls, of beasts and giants, creatures larger than buildings.

Then he spoke of magic. Tuuri heard snatches of Finnish runos, saw depictions of Icelandic runes being drawn in the dirt, heard still other terms she was wholly unfamiliar with, as he indicated his armor, the blades at his back and hip.

By the time Jón was done, the man’s voice was hoarse with use.

 

The khal stood there, silently mulling over what had been said for a time, before breaking the silence. "You all came from this land? Even the weak looking white haired girl, that my wife thinks I do not notice riding in her khas?"  
  
“You did see the sword she carries, khal?" Mormont asked.  
  
"Weak looking,” Drogo said, “not truly weak. Knight, even a mouse can kill a viper, if it needs to."

 

Jón nodded, then looked at Tuuri. “Any idea where Lyra is from?” Tuuri shook her head, but resolved to ask later.

Jón spoke a bit more with Drogo, then nodded. “He wants us to join him for dinner. Evidently horsemeat is local cuisine,” he said hoarsely. “Could be worse.”

“Sure!” Sigrun said brightly, eager to eat something Mikkel hadn’t cooked for once.

“He also,” Jón said carefully, “wants Tuuri to demonstrate how she ‘tamed the iron tiger’.”

Sigrun gave Tuuri a glance. “I don’t see why not…” she said warily, and Tuuri beamed, ducking inside to retrieve her tools.

 

The khal didn't wait for translation of agreement-  the body language of Sigrun, Mikkel, Reynir and even Emil and Lalli, indicated they were ready to eat, especially now that the smell of cooking fires from the khal's pavilion had started wafting downhill. The khal turned and began striding up the hill.  
The others followed, Reynir casting the occasional nervous glance over one shoulder.  
  
To make room for their guests Daenerys, a very disgruntled Viserys, and some of the khal's men had deigned to eat with the Khaleesi's attendants, at the table set merely one level lower in the open sided tent the meal had been prepared in.

 Seared meat, fresh mead that outriders had ‘procured’, even a platter of wild fruit and skewers of roasted vegetables were piled high on the tables, a vast feast.

Lalli picked at his food, while Emil nattered at him in Swedish. Even with her lessons, her cousin couldn't have understood more than one word in ten, but he bore it stoically. Reynir and Jón talked magic, Jón talking about runes and prayers, Reynir nodding, with the occasional soft question thrown in. Mikkel watched stolidly. Sigrun distracted Jón, and got him to translate the story involving her killing a troll with her teeth to a half-credulous audience.

At one point, Viserys and Daenerys began to argue again, in an even stranger language. The way the silver haired man kept glancing up at the khal's table and his guests made it clear he felt slighted, for some reason. Daenerys quieted down after a sharp string of criticisms from one of her attendants, but this just seemed to agitate Viserys more as he reached into one of the cooking fires to grab a red hot and sparking poker and swung it at the offending attendant. Tuuri jumped in surprise, but the makeshift weapon fell short as he dropped the poker like it had bit him, muttering curses in Westerosi and storming out of the tent in a huff.  
  
Daenerys stared off after her brother, speaking quietly to herself, before returning to her meal at the prompting of one of her attendants.

“He’s a jealous snake,” Lalli said suddenly.

“What?” she asked. She paused. “His spirit?” she asked. Lalli nodded. “A snake. The dragon is bigger, but she's afraid of it, still.”

Tuuri frowned, then glanced at Jón, talking with Drogo now, his bandana pulled low. “And him?”

Lalli considered this solemnly. “A wolf. A big one. Bigger than him.” He paused. “It’s separate, though. Like the Icelan- like Reynir. Not part of him.”

Tuuri nodded. “Everyone who isn't Finnish does that.” She'd learned that while studying her Icelandic. Even the Danes and the Swedes were supposed to have them, though they didn’t believe in any gods at all!

“Why?” Lalli asked, looking at a patch of apparently empty air intently.

Tuuri shrugged. “That's how their gods do things, I guess. They call them...fylgja, I think.”

“Mrr.”

A set of servants spent some time attempting to get the fire poker back into the fire, but it was still too hot. Finally they were shooed away by one of Daenerys's attendants, who using the hem of her sleeve picked it up, and returned the metal poker to the cooking fire.  
  
"Ice?" Lalli shook his head in confusion, "that one has no spirit with her and yet..." he trailed off, watching the attendant intently. "Hrrmm."

 

“Is he usually that rude to his family?” Sigrun asked Drogo. After a brief translation, Drogo nodded.

“So how do we deal with him? He acts like he’s important enough to cause trouble.”

 

By the time they had finished deliberating, the khaleesi's group had filed off to her tents. Mormont, Sigrun, Drogo and Jón finally agreed the best way to handle Viserys with enough tact to keep him from accidentally burning down the camp was ‘keep him drunk but not too drunk’.

Tuuri yawned, as did Lalli, and Mikkel stood, motioning Reynir and Emil out of their seats. “We will return to the tank,” he said bluntly.

Lalli yawned again, before standing up and following along, while Tuuri sat around waiting for Sigrun and Jon. "You're going to join us at the tank.... right?" she asked.

Drogo spoke, and Jón shrugged. “He wants Sigrun and I to stay. I’m a free agent, and Sigrun leads you, so he has to talk with us each.” He smiles, and Tuuri abruptly notices the puckered scar that stretches from jaw to cheekbone, previously concealed in the shadows thrown by the fire. “Don't worry too much, we’ll be fine.”

 

Tuuri nodded before collecting she tools she'd brought, to give something of a visual instruction of how she had ‘tamed the iron tiger’, hefting the large crescent wrench over her shoulder before turning to head back to the tank. "Don't stay up too late, I don't think it would bring great honor to fall asleep in the saddle."

 

Jón's translation brought a snort of laughter from the Khal. "Your people learn our ways quickly."

Tuuri leaves the tent, walking carefully in the rapidly darkening area.

 

As she passed between the two upper camps one of the Dothraki from the lower campsites quietly stole up to her from behind before roughly grabbing her.

 

She let out a surprised "Eeeeeeee!" noise, and without giving much forethought, swung the crescent wrench down and backwards between her legs, nailing the unfortunate soul that had tried to assault her directly in the groin as he fumbled with his belt. She dropped the wrench, scrambling back as more of the Dothraki approached, some with swords drawn. She pulled another wrench out with shaking hands as they closed, grinning like wolves in a storybook.

The crack of a rifle drowned out her thoughts, and the closest Dothraki dropped. Tuuri turned, and Sigrun was there, eyes blazing, jaw set, and rifle raised, Jón following like a grim shadow.

For a moment no one moved, uncertainty filling the air. One appeared about to make a move when a fireball erupted under him, lifting the unfortunate Dothraki off the ground and sending others flying, the flames briefly illuminating a half-asleep Emil propped up by Mikkel.

Moments later, the khal himself arrived, looking even angrier than Sigrun. He belted something out in his own language, walking towards one of the still-standing Dothraki. The other horseman replied, and the khal cut him down, nearly cutting the man in half with his curved sword.

The remainder scattered, or tried to, as the khal’s bloodriders closed in. A few resisted, and were cut down without mercy, before they herded the wounded survivors before the khal.

Drogo looked at them, eyes hard, then to Sigrun, and growled something in Westerosi. Jón translated. “He wants you to decide their punishment. Says it is your right, as leader of the...khas?...they defiled.” He spares a look for the prisoners, then puts on his helm, hiding his expression behind snarling steel. Tuuri shivered, and backed away, only to feel a hand on her shoulder. Reynir.

Sigrun surveyed the prisoners, eyes narrowed. Then she gave her orders.

 


	5. Lalli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a relatively short one.
> 
> My thanks to Laufey, for helping me find a proper Kalevala translation to use as a runo. You're awesome, and I'll probably be consulting you further as this fic develops.

Lalli didn’t sleep well that night. The dream world...it was too chaotic, disordered. Currents had been stirred up. He couldn’t even leave his haven, to talk to Onni. Frustrating.

He rolled out of the cot on the tank, pulled on his uniform and rifle, and stepped outside. One of the weird horsemen was standing there, guarding the exit. He nodded to Lalli as he passed. Lalli ignored him.

It was still early, sun not even up. Even the spirits were quiet and sleeping, save for the _lohikäärme_ , still curled up around the big tent, guarding.

 

Movement, to the east, where those not-moose-things were kept. Lalli approached cautiously, bent low. A spirit, doing….he hadn’t the slightest idea. Lalli ran through the runos in his mind, meter and rhyme, and stalked closer.

 

As he topped the hill, a soft noise, like grass rustled by the wind, reached his ears. Two people, not a single spirit, were in the slight valley, fighting each other. One human, one spirit.

Both human and spirit wore the same clothes, wielded the same weapons- a overlong sword, and a dagger- but the spirit had a _tail_.

Every time their blades struck their other, sparks, magic, flew into the air, wafting away.

Lalli had seen enough. He began to chant.

 

“ _"Ja tuonne sinun manoan, tuonne kehnoa kehoitan_

_ukkokontion kotihin, akkakarhun kartanohon,_

_notkoille noroperille, soille räykymättömille,_

_heiluvihin hettehisin, läilyvihin lähtehisin,_

_lampihin kalattomihin, aivan ahvenettomihin._

 

_Et siellä sijoa saane, niin tuonne sinun manoan_

_Pohjan pitkähän perähän, Lapin maahan laukeahan,_

_ahoille vesattomille, maille kyntämättömille,_

_kuss' ei kuuta, aurinkoa-”_

 

Lalli continued the chant as the human got close to the spirit, a well-timed roll and swing sending the tailed apparition flying. Then the human _helped the spirit up_ , talking in one of their weird languages. Lalli cut off the chant immediately, letting the building power sink back. Control.

He took a deep breath, and approached cautiously.

The spirit was strange, he could feel that, mirror of the human...another strangeness of the spirits Tuuri had mentioned?

 

Why couldn’t they just stay the same form, like Lynx? Frustrating.

 

A moment before the two were about to start fighting again, the spirit turned towards Lalli. It looked distracted.

"Master... I believe there's an audience."

 

The human- Lyra, he realized, the ‘ranger’ with strange magic that had tried to hire Tuuri- spun and looked around warily, spotting him. "Ah... good morn.." she looked around trying to figure out what time it was. "..ing?" Good. She spoke Finnish. Last thing he needed was more babble.

 

Lalli simply nodded, and pointed to the sun. “Morning.” He paused, then shrugged, drifting away from them, walking back towards the tank. Tuuri would be up, and talking, but at least he understood what she was saying, when he listened. Emil...it was better than before, but still mostly babble. And the Captain and the Icelander were too...bouncy.

Lalli shook his head, and moved closer to the tank, then froze. The other Icelander’s wolf was curled up in front of the tank. The man himself was nowhere to be seen. Lalli hunched his shoulders in aggravation.

Tuuri was there, starting a fire from embers left over from last night.

“Find anything interesting last night?” she asks. Lalli wonders if she remembers what happened clearly. She didn’t remember Saimaa well, either.

He realizes she’s waiting for an answer, and shrugs. “Lots of weird people, and horses. No Rash. Couldn’t find Onni, either. The sea…” He shrugs again. “...too rough.”

 

“Radio’s out too,” Tuuri said woodenly, staring at the embers. “Nothing but static.” She looks at Lalli. “What’ll happen when we don’t report in, in a few days? What then?”

 

He shrugged. "They assume the same thing that happens when a team vanishes, happened to us." Tuuri frowned, and prodded the embers harder.

 

He sat with his back to the fire for a bit while his cousin prepared leftovers from the feast the night before. While she was distracted, he slid up and nicked a couple pieces of some kind of sweet bread that had been at the meal.

 

Munching his breakfast, he stole away quietly, moving in a wide circuit around the slumbering wolf.

 

The Captain was off with Mikkel and Emil, probably already on their weird not-moose-things. He had one too. It was surprisingly easy to ride, though it rubbed in the wrong places with the saddle.

He looked around carefully, then shrugged, and sat down, watching the wolf.

 

It opened its eyes, and stared back, grey meeting catlike blue. Lalli frowned at it, narrowing his eyes. The wolf grinned, and stood lazily, stretching, before padding slightly closer. Lalli froze, not moving an inch, trying desperately not to even breathe.

 

“ _Grimmig. Lass den Jungen alleine.”_

The wolf looked contrite, then stepped back from Lalli, and he relaxed minisculely.

 

The big Icelander approached, nodded once to Lalli, then leaned back against the tank, setting his helm down on the hood. His armor, dark though it was, practically _flowed_ with the light of magic, oddly precise. Regimented. Ordered. Not like his, or Onni’s, or even the other weird Icelander’s. “ _Du är en udda,”_ he said, chuckling, and Lalli frowned again. What did he say he was? He didn’t know enough Swedish.

The Icelander shrugged. _“Introduktioner är i ordning, ja?”_ He pointed to himself. “Jón.” He indicated Lalli, then made a confused gesture.

Ah. He wanted a name.

“Lalli.”

The Icelander nodded, then picked up his helm again, moving off again.

Lalli saw Lyra had approached while they had talked, and was conversing with Tuuri. He ignored it, deciding to follow the Icelander. He wanted to know how he laid so many charms on that armor.

 

The Dothraki kept a distance from the Icelander- Jón, now-, still wary after what the Captain had ordered last night. He didn’t see why they were worried. It’s not like _they_ tried to hurt Tuuri.

By extension, they kept their distance from _him_ , which he liked.

Jón got farther ahead, but he didn't care. That much magic could be seen halfway across the camp.

After a while, Jón reached a slight clearing, where Sigrun, Mikkel, and the other Icelander were waiting. He nodded to Sigrun, pointed to Reynir, and babbled something in Swedish, then his own language. He and the braid-wearer went off a bit, sat facing each other, and closed their eyes.

Weird.

Lalli turned away, and headed back.

He found Lyra gone, and Tuuri reading a book, one that looked relatively new, though many of the pages in front were missing. He walked up silently behind her. “What is it?” he asks.

 

Tuuri jumped slightly. "Ah... oh! It's a book Lyra put together for me to start picking up on the languages out here, ah...Westerosi that's what the bald man speaks, Valyrian which is the silver haired girl's language and Dothraki-" she motioned at the crowd of horses and men before holding out the book for Lalli to see.  


Much of the writing is hard to decipher, at first, but it clears quickly. Lalli senses magic in the fibres of paper soaked in the ink, and he concentrates, wary. It seems inactive, and he can begin to feel it's use- if he empowered it, it'd help him remember what he read, even if he only skimmed it.

  
He pointed at an inscription written in a language he'd never seen before, inside the front cover. Even the letters were different. ”And that?” he asks.

 

Tuuri shrugs. “I think they called it Krillin, or Communis.”

 

“Can you read it?"  
  
She shook her head. "When did you start taking an interest in books anyway?"

 

Lalli shrugged. “The book has magic. To help you remember, I think.”

 

“Really? That's awesome!” Tuuri beamed, before reading the book with intensified interest.

 

The warlord came shortly after, on a red not-moose. Jón followed, on his black one, leading the gray Lalli had ridden yesterday alongside.

The Khal quietly walked into the camp appearing restless as he looked around the camp. He spoke surprisingly softly, possibly to try and not frighten Tuuri, though the language made little sense to Lalli. The book worked, as he caught "where" and "your" in the language called Westerosi.

Lalli and Tuuri exchanged glances, and Tuuri nodded, closing the book and heading inside the tank, starting it quickly.

Lalli mounted the gray, he and Jón moving to rejoin the others, the warlord leading them, Tuuri following behind.

Days passed as they crossed the grassy plains, every day seemingly unchanging. The tank consumed a prodigious quantity of grasses, turning them into biofuel, a bit of Icelander and Danish working that had had Tuuri Eeeeing for nearly an hour.

Jón and Reynir kept doing the thing where they sat facing each other, doing nothing, sometimes for nearly an hour. After a while, Lalli started waiting. He wanted to know what they were doing. Could they be finding the dream world.

The Captain got very loud, a few days in, when she found there was no way of contacting home. Mikkel had to prevent her from punching the radio. Lalli ignored it. Not important.

He read some more of the strange girl’s book, enough to get some basics. He learned more Swedish, too.

The Captain tried to learn Westerosi, as did Emil, but it did not go well for either. Lalli resigned himself to it.

Mikkel and Tuuri, on the other hand, fell into it like a moose through thin ice.

The cat slept. Lucky animal.

One day, the grasses ended, to Lalli’s annoyance. He had just been getting used to them, too. That day, he heard from a conversation between Mikkel and the Captain, that the dragon-girl, Daenerys, was pregnant. He murred. He could have told them that a month ago, when they were new arrivals. But nobody had asked.


	6. Eddard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short one.
> 
> My thanks, as always, to Solokov of the Forum for his help in writing this.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, please leave feedback: what you liked, what you didn't, tips on characterization, whatever you think is appropriate. Anything you let me know will help improve my writing skill for later.

  
EDDARD I  
  
“Robert, I beg of you," Ned pleaded, "hear what you are saying. You are talking of murdering a child."  
  
"The whore is pregnant!" The king's fist slammed down on the council table, loud as a thunderclap. "I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you'll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead."  
  
The other councilors were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else. No doubt they were wiser than he was. Eddard Stark had seldom felt quite so alone. "You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this."  
  
"Then let it be on my head, so long as it is done. I am not so blind that I cannot see the shadow of the axe when it is hanging over my own neck."  
  
"There is no axe," Ned told his king. "Only the shadow of a shadow, twenty years removed . . . if it exists at all."  
  
"If?" Varys asked softly, wringing powdered hands together. "My lord, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to king and council?"  
  
Ned looked at the eunuch coldly. "You would bring us the whisperings of a traitor half a world away, my lord. Perhaps Mormont is wrong. Perhaps he is lying."  
  
"Ser Jorah would not dare deceive me," Varys said with a sly smile. "Rely on it, my lord. The princess is with child."  
  
"So you say. If you are wrong-“  
  
“My lords, pardon the interruption, but there’s more to consider here than just the girl being pregnant.” Lord Baelish spoke up interrupting Ned.  
  
“Had the king not started a tirade the moment I even mentioned her, I would have covered that by now. There are other things to take into consideration,” Varys said quietly, before continuing on secure that he now had the table under control again. “A group of foreigners have joined up with the girl’s entourage; they are...unique to say the least. There are eight in total, Mormont believes six of them are from beyond the north, or rather Esso’s equivalent, as their equipment is similar to that of the ‘free folk’, if much better made. And they carry a sigil- of a red six pointed star.”  
  
“And the other two?” Renly and Robert both seemed intrigued at this new development.  
  
“One is a Westerosi knight, his armor is black with the helm fashioned like that of a wolf.”  
  
“A wolf, are you sure the Lannister’s mutt hasn’t wandered off?” chuckled Baelish. “Tell them about the girl now.”  
  
Varys gave Baelish a genuinely annoyed look before continuing, “The Hound is well within the borders of Westeros. As for the other, Mormont believes her to be a Valyrian Ranger, or at least a Valyrian descendant who keeps traditions such as that.”  
  
“So, you’re saying we should worry about six free folk, another knight and probably a scam artist? They’ll be dead by the Dothraki soon enough.” The king chucked at the thought, while taking another sip of wine.  
  
Baelish shrugged before speaking again, “My spies have confirmed this information as well your Grace. What’s more, the knight fought the Khal to a draw when Drogo asked for their champion. That, and they have an iron wheelhouse.”  
  
“So? It would take thirty steeds to move something like that.”  
  
“It moves on its own.”  
  
There was a small silence before Varys continued speaking.  
  
“Beyond that, one of the free folk appears to be a pyromancer of some sort, if young and entirely ungiven to the...behaviors of the ones here. Two are related, perhaps brother and sister. The sister is the one who guides the wheelhouse, while the brother is given some rank as a magus of some sort, despite his youth. A fourth brings skills in medicine that seem to rival a maester’s. A fifth seems to be nothing but a young fool, but both the knight and the ‘ranger’ have been tutoring him, Mormont knows not in what direction. The sixth is another woman, and their leader.” Varys pauses. “A group of some fifteen Dothraki attempted to . . .take advantage of the wheelhouse driver one night. Seven were killed by the khal and his men. She fought the remaining eight personally. With a knife, while they were armed with arakhs. And castrated each of them while doing it.” Varys pauses again, as most of the Small Council winces. “The knight wields a sword near as long as he is tall one-handed, while the girl does the same, with the addition of a knife in the opposite hand.”  
  
“Varys, tell him about the girl’s sigil.” Baelish looked to Ned and gave him a wry grin as if to say sarcastically ‘you’re going to love this’.  
  
“I had hoped to speak with Lord Stark on this matter first,” The eunuch sighed before speaking again. “According to Mormont, some of the ‘ranger’s’ equipment appears to have the Stark sigil embossed on it.”  
  
All eyes at the table turned to stare at Ned, even the Grand Maester seemed fully awake for once.  
"Ned," Robert snarled. "Is there something you've failed to tell me?"  
  
Ned knew he seemed worlds away as he sat there quietly, eyes closed, though he was suddenly brought back to reality by a loud crash as Robert’s wine flagon sailed past his head, to impact the far wall of the council chamber. “I apologize. . .I feel I missed something while I was thinking on your question Robert.” At some point, the King and Renly had gotten into some sort of argument, which had escalated to Robert hurling his now empty wine flagon as he attempted to lunge over the table at his brother. The two brothers looked around awkwardly before returning to their seats, “To answer your question, no, Robert, I did not father a child with a Targaryen, and had I you would be well aware of it, as I would have claimed them as my own bastard, damn the consequences.”  
  
“Then it’s settled.” The king grinned. “No worries, we can have the girl killed, and the strangers can take the blame.”  
  
Ned growled out a reply, standing as he did. “Robert, have the years so unmanned you that you’re fearful of the shadow of a child? That you’d send knives in the night after an innocent girl, and let the blame fall on strangers, who were probably coerced into her company in order to survive a horde of Dothraki? I take my leave of this discussion.” Ned bowed and turned to leave as Robert slowly stood up, his face turning purple as he spluttered something incomprehensible as the door shut with a quiet thud, drowning out the explosion of curses from the King.  
  
Ser Boros Blount was stationed outside the chamber, wearing the long white cloak and armor of the Kingsguard. He gave Ned a quick, curious glance from the corner of his eye, but asked no questions.


	7. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the one where we begin to take a sledgehammer to the timeline, folks. Fasten your seatbelts.
> 
> Feedback is, as always, extremely welcome.

It seemed as though he had been falling for years.

 _Fly,_ a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran did not know how to fly, so all he could do was fall.

Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran's clothes, and flung him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. "But I never fall," he said, falling.

The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him down there. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up in the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke up in the instant before you hit the ground.

 _And if you don't?_ the voice asked.

The ground was closer now, still far far away, a thousand miles away, but closer than it had been. It was cold here in the darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming up to smash him, and the grey mists, and the whispering voice. He wanted to cry.

_Not cry. Fly._

"I can't fly," Bran said. "I can't, I can't . . . "

_How do you know? Have you ever tried?_

The voice was high and thin. Bran looked around to see where it was coming from. A crow was spiraling down with him, just out of reach, following him as he fell. "Help me," he said.

 _I'm trying,_ the crow replied. _Say, got any corn?_

Bran reached into his pocket as the darkness spun dizzily around him. When he pulled his hand out, golden kernels slid from between his fingers into the air. They fell with him.

The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.

"Are you really a crow?" Bran asked.

 _Are you really falling?_ the crow asked back.

"It's just a dream," Bran said.

 _Is it?_ asked the crow.

"I'll wake up when I hit the ground," Bran told the bird.

 _You'll die when you hit the ground_ , the crow said. It went back to eating corn.

Bran looked down. He could see mountains now, their peaks white with snow, and the silver thread of rivers in dark woods. He closed his eyes and began to cry.

 _That won't do any good,_ the crow said. _I told you, the answer is flying, not crying. How hard can it be? I'm doing it_. The crow took to the air and flapped around Bran's hand.

"You have wings," Bran pointed out.

_Maybe you do too._

Bran felt along his shoulders, groping for feathers.

 _There are different kinds of wings,_ the crow said.

  


Bran was staring at his arms, his legs. He was so skinny, just skin stretched taut over bones. Had he always been so thin? He tried to remember. A face swam up out of the grey mist, shining with golden light.

"The things I do for love," it said.

Bran screamed.

The crow took to the air, cawing _not now_ , it shrieked at him, _Remember that, you will need it soon but not now._ It landed on Bran's shoulder, and pecked at the face dispersing it back into the mist.

Bran was falling faster than ever now.

The grey mists howled around him as he plunged toward the earth below. "What are you doing to me?" he asked the crow, tearful.

_Teaching you how to fly._

"I can't fly!"

_You're flying right now._

"I'm falling!"

 _Every flight begins with a fall_ , the crow said. _Look down._

"I'm afraid . . . "

_LOOK DOWN!_

Bran looked down, and felt his insides turn to water. The ground was rushing up at him now. The whole world was spread out below him, a tapestry of white and brown and green. He could see everything so clearly that for a moment he forgot to be afraid. He could see the whole realm, and everyone in it.

  


He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking squat and stubby from above, the castle walls just lines in the dirt. He saw Maester Luwin studying some kind of tome, as the Imp sat beside him, with his brother Robb pacing the room to and fro. He appeared taller and stronger than before, and he carried real steel in his belt now. He saw Hodor, the simple giant from the stables, hefting a pony like it was a bale of hay, as Mikken reshod the animal's hooves. At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, it's leaves rustling in the chill wind while men prepared what looked like a ceremonial fire beside it. When it felt Bran watching , it lifted its eyes from the still waters and stared back knowingly.

 

He looked south, past the blue green waters of the Trident, to see a battered-looking galley crawling into the waters of Blackwater Bay. His mother stood at the bow, bloodstained knife clutched in a bandaged hand and a heavy scarf wrapped around her head. He saw his father arguing with the king, his face etched with anger. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her heart. There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.

 

He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea. There his eyes rested for a moment on a great mass of men and horses led by what looked like a giant iron cat, prowling across the grasses like a hungry tom stalking mice, as it and the tide of horses streamed towards Vaes Dothrak under its mountain. His eyes did not remain there for long as he looked yet further east, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.

 

Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed, his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of warmth fled from him. And he looked past the wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, the small villages blackened by fires as the wildlings tended to their sick and fended off dark shapes in the night. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks.

 _Now you know_ , the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. _Now you know why you must live._

"Why?" Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling.

_Because winter is coming._

Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. He was desperately afraid.

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" he heard his own voice saying, small and far away.

And his father's voice replied to him. "That is the only time a man can be brave."

 _Now, Bran,_ the crow urged. _Choose. Fly or die._

Death reached for him, screaming.

Bran spread his arms and flew.

Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward. The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up above. Bran soared. It was better than climbing. It was better than anything. The world grew small beneath him.

"I'm flying!" he cried out in delight.

 _I've noticed_ , said the three-eyed crow. It took to the air, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him, blinding him. He faltered in the air as its pinions beat against his cheeks. Its beak stabbed at him fiercely, and Bran felt a sudden blinding pain in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes.

"What are you doing?" he shrieked.

 

The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a scream of confusion, and the grey mists shuddered and ripped away like a torn veil, and he saw the crow was really Maester Luwin. "He's awake, damnation be damned, that tome from Aemon worked. He's awake!"

A murmur of voices broke out as a low whine alerted him to the direwolf, his direwolf, mere moments before it tackled him and began licking his face. Looking around he saw the faces of Robb, the men of Winterfell, even the Imp was there, as the concerned looks melted into those of elation.

Tyrion slowly waddled his way over to Bran, who was only now realizing he was laying on a cot under the weirwood, then clasped him on the shoulder, "Welcome back to the land of the waking, young master Stark."

 


	8. Daenerys II

They were halfway to Vaes Dothrak when Daenerys first asked her companion about magic.

The question was not a sudden one- it had been simmering for weeks. Her handmaids, capable though they were in other ways, would simply have talked nonsense, as was their way. Lyra, on the other hand, had no illusions.

“Why do they do that?” she asked, indicating the knight, the braided boy, and the grey-haired boy. The first two had sat in a circle, facing each other, and closed their eyes. The third would simply stand there, watching them, for at least an hour, before they woke up, and started speaking between them. They’d done this for months, and it still mystified her.

The ranger sat up in the saddle, having been focused on writing in another journal she had procured, and tilted her hooded head to see what she had pointed at, before speaking in Valyrian, rather than the common tongue they normally conversed in. "It's... complicated to say the least... I don't know for sure, but I believe Jón is taking Reynir into his...ah, for lack of a better word, dreamscape, to train him in magic and self defense."

Daenerys suppressed a laugh at the idea of the braided redhead wielding a weapon. Lyra had made an attempt early on, and the results had left the ranger spending an hour searching the grasses for the training weapons she'd hurled out of frustration.

She continued her explanation unabated, "-every mage where we come from has something of a mental haven, where they awake each night while sleeping and usually these are interconnected through streams and pathways of magic...but since we came here the currents and paths have been too chaotic to try and travel..." she sighed, quietly speaking more to herself now, while watching the three mages, "I guess they figured out a way to re-connect the paths..."

“Interesting,” Daenerys said, completely dumbfounded.

Behind her, Mormont pulled up his horse, watching Lyra carefully. “You seem to have many who claim the title of mage, Ranger,” he said carefully. “But I have yet to see much from any of them. How can someone like him-” he indicated Reynir “- be one who is supposed to see the world’s deepest mysteries? The other boy, I could understand, as he seems...odd, enough, to serve as one. But the other…I do not see how he remains so...cheerful."

She shrugged, "He's untrained, and has spent the majority of his years a shepherd for his parents. He's only seeing the world for his own eyes in the last few months. Each sight a person like you or I would take for granted, he's seeing for the first time." She paused. “Especially considering our...rapid change in location.”

 

She rolled her hand after plucking a piece of fruit from her saddlepack, examining it before drawing figures into the skin with a fingernail. "The others, Jón- I've seen his magic, it's as foreign to me as mine is to him. Tuuri is no mage, just a skilled mechanic, and Lalli's... well it depends on the whim of his gods."

There was a blue flash around the fruit, and she broke it in two, handing one to Daenerys, the other she tossed to Moremont. Both pieces were chilled and icy on the insides.

Daenerys bit into it easily, enjoying the rare coldness that her companion’s talents provided easily. Mormont considered his for a moment, then did the same.

Jón opened his eyes, and stood. The big knight moving easily despite the weight of his armor. The grey-haired boy, Lalli, backed away warily as he approached her and her companions, Reynir following like an overeager puppy. The knight saluted, and looked them over briefly. “Grim says you’re asking about magic, ma’am,” he stated briefly.

Lalli looked at a point above her head, then said something rapid and incomprehensible to Lyra. "Grim is Jón's companion spirit," the ranger explained, "Lalli said that it's about time you started asking about magic, based off your own spirit." She motioned above and behind the girl.

“I should be grateful I cannot see him, if his expression is anything to go by,” Daenerys said. “But, what is so unusual about it?”

Jón laughed, while Lalli merely appeared grumpy, an expression that seemed to be almost constant, save when he was around a few select people. The pyromancer being one of them, his cousin another.

The ranger shrugged and slid off the horse. "He's honestly not that scary." With the hood on it was hard to read her expression, but her tone sounded puzzled as if she'd wanted to ask. "You can't actually see him?"

Jón said something in one of his languages to Lyra, then frowned, and started talking in what seemed to be a mixture of two languages, speaking to Lyra and Reynir alternately.

Lyra drew her knife, and started cutting through the grass to the dirt below around Jón as she wrote runes into the dirt. "Jón thought of something interesting."

She rapidly spoke back to him and waited on a response before continuing, "He knows of a spell of his that can reveal guardian spirits inside a radius from the caster for a short time...but needs assistance from myself and Reynir. Would it please the khaleesi if we did this?"  
She nodded, as regally as she can manage. “It would.”

Lyra relayed this dutifully to Jón, and the big man grinned, before bending over and drawing the long knife at his hip, using it to scratch an intricate design in the dirt, being careful not to go near the runes Lyra was adding.

The ranger finished a circle of runes around Jón. It seemed to be made up of old valyrian letters, but Daenerys didn't fully recognize any of them. The ranger then motioned to Reynir to sit on one side while she started carving more runes. These appeared to be the same as the previous circle, but flipped inside out. She said something to the grey haired boy who initially shook his head before she tossed a sweet roll to him and he started carving another, near copy of the circle a third of the way around the inner circle, before Lyra carved a third and final circle, connecting the three with deep lines. This created a rough triangle, with runes that looked like dragon's teeth pointing inward from the edges of the triangle to the inner circle. She dropped down in the empty circle, cross legged, waiting for a signal from Jón, as the grey haired boy chewed on the roll. The redhead looked like a confused puppy, until Jón said something and he perked up, spreading his hand wide and acquiring a look of intense concentration.

Jón finished his own set of symbols, then nodded and dropped into the center of the circles, nodding to Lyra and Reynir before speaking a single phrase.

" _Ostende quod multa, paucis visa._ "

The circles of symbols begin to glow with a gold-orange light, pulsing rhythmically, before lancing out in all directions. Daenerys barely kept herself from flinching as the light flashed brightly, before fading away.

 

Behind her, Jhogo let out a low whistle of appreciation.

The redhead grinned happily, petting a shaggy, plain-looking dog. The fact that the animal was glowing brightly seemed to not deter him in the slightest.

Daenerys looked to Lyra, and thought for a moment she was seeing double, before one of the Lyras wavered, and with a ripple of darkness became a large fox. Or perhaps a wolf. It was difficult to tell.

She turned her attention to the grey-haired boy, curious to see what form his spirit would take. Curiously, he did not seem to have one, though a pair of catlike ears had manifested on top of his head.

The big knight’s spirit manifested as an immense gaunt grey wolf, nearly the size of her horse, and Mormont laid a hand on his sword.

Then, Dany heard a low murmur, and much yelling. She turned her horse.

A dragon stood there, black, with red eyes, immense. She had heard tales of Balerion, the Black Dread, the first and greatest of Aegon’s dragons. This creature, if she remembered the stories correctly, dwarfed him.

She stood in awe as the gigantic creature regarded her quietly, before leaning close. Her silver backed away skittishly before Dany laid a hand on its mane, halting it. She held out her other hand, to touch the scales, the smallest larger than her entire hand.

The dragon’s wings folded across the group, hiding them from view.

She faintly heard the red-haired boy gulp.

She also heard Lyra snicker slightly, then say something to the grey-haired boy. She then spoke to Jón, in the Common Tongue.

“You said reveal, you never said they’d manifest physically.”

 

The black-armored knight shrugged. “Had to channel the extra power somewhere, so decided imitating touch would be helpful. Spell won’t last long, though.” Dany looked back, to see him reaching up to scratch his wolf behind the ears.

The ranger nodded and spent some time giving the fox a once over with a horse comb to detangle its fur while she could. It nuzzled its face against her own in appreciation, knocking her hood back. With her hood drawn back, the dark circles and bags from lack of sleep were quite evident. Daenerys was about to speak something to that effect, to try and guilt her into actually sleeping properly, when the rapid sound of hoofbeats approaching and Viserys shouting for Daenerys could be heard over the sound of forty thousand Dothraki collectively having a, as Mikkel had once put it, 'conniption fit'.

"SISTER! ARE YOU ALIVE?!"

Mormont chuckled at how the boy actually, for the first time he could recall, sounded concerned for his sister.

 

The hoofbeats stopped suddenly as the horse shied away and threw the prince to the ground at the sight of the beast, but adrenaline spurred him on, and he was on his feet, sword in hand, glaring at the fading dragon spirit, as though it were retreating from his presence.

"If you hurt her I will end you!"

Mormont snorted at this notion.

Glancing around, Daenerys noticed the other spirits had already faded from sight, while Lyra had her hood up and drawn close again as she scuffed out the last runes that had been carved into the dirt. Viserys rushed into the group, suddenly eyeing them suspiciously.

"Brother, calm yourself... it was just a conjuration of... ah how was it put, my guardian spirit." Daenerys said reassuringly.

His face calmed for a moment before twisting in confusion and rage. “Your guardian spirit. _YOUR_ GUARDIAN SPIRIT?!”

His words frothed together as he advanced on his sister, sword drawn in rage as he shouted about being the true dragon, the only dragon, how _dare_ she pretend to his glory-

Blurs of motion, and he found himself with two swords and two knives at his throat. Jón, Lalli, Lyra, and Sigrun, the last of whom must have snuck up while they were distracted, all held blades at the ready.

Viserys goggled, and Sigrun took the opportunity to punch him in the face, knocking him flat, away from the blades.

Panic flashed across his face as he stood shakily, and turned to Mormont. "Cut her down, the bitch hit me! Make her bleed! Your king commands it!"

The knight quietly sat atop his horse as Viserys continued shouting orders, before looking to Daenerys. She shook her head, and Mormont turned away.

A startling crack cut through the noise and stopped her brother's shouting, as he quickly began to struggle with something at his neck. Unnoticed to all, Drogo had rode up following her brother, before calmly catching him with a whip around the neck. "Shall I have him fed to the iron tiger for this, moon of my life?" he asked.

Daenerys considered her options for a moment as her brother continued to struggle for breath, both hands clawing at the whip now. "No...not for this... he shall ride the wagons among the ill and wounded of the khalasar for this, until we reach Vaes Dothrak."

The khal nodded and let the whip loose, her brother collapsing immediately, gasping for breath. "It shall be done, my wife.”

The ranger leaned over her brother, whispering something to Viserys, before mounting her own horse and joining the dispersing group.

Once out of earshot of her brother Daenerys asked Lyra in Valyrian, "What were you telling him?"

She shrugged before responding, "Just promised that if he ever tries to strike you again, he won't get to keep the hand he uses anymore."

She nods. “Is that the punishment, then, where you come from?”

The ranger shook her head before responding, "No. In my homeland, assaulting an expecting mother is the gravest of sins. The perpetrator would either be sacrificed to Pele, or the gods of the deep... the worst are banished beyond the ashlands to be tormented eternally by Coyote."

She raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar terms. “And the others?” she asks.

Lyra consulted briefly with Sigrun and Jón, before replying. “Jon’s...employers, would be the correct term, favored something involving millstones and a pack of rabid weasels, if the assault was against a woman with the intent to rape. For Sigrun's people, it almost never got that far. Mostly because the women are as well-armed as the men.”

"That all sounds much worse than losing just a hand." She quietly pondered the punishments. They sounded painful, especially when she thought of the 'training’ Sigrun had offered to her and the one named Tuuri after the... incident. "What are 'pele' and 'coyote'?...I've never heard of them..." She let the question hang in the air.

The ranger shrugged, "Two of the gods of my homeland, Pele is the goddess of fire, Coyote...is well, Coyote. A trickster of sorts.”

“I see.” She looked at Jón. “Employers? He’s a mercenary, then?”

Lyra shrugged, "I'd guessed he was possibly a lord of some kind, based off the craft of his armor." The ranger turned to Jon and asked something in his own language. Jón shook his head emphatically, and approached her horse. He rolled up the short sleeve of his shirt, his upper arms bare of armor, which exposed a brand, barely healed, in the shape of an bird of prey. “ _Landsknechtermarke,”_ he said, before continuing in the Common Tongue. “The brand of a band sworn to the Emperor of _das Regnum Germanorum._ ”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. Sigrun's widened, and she began speaking and gesticulating angrily at Arbet, who responded in kind. Lyra sighed, and continued speaking.

"The others are, well aside from Mikkel and Reynir, all professional soldiers. ." she paused thinking of the right wording, "sworn to the rulers of their land, Mikkel would be the closest to a sellsword, but he has spent more time as a worker than anything else. And Reynir was, I've been told, a stowaway inside a crate of food."  
"And you? Who do you serve?"  
"I'm a sworn ranger, I live and die to serve the safety of the realm regardless of who rules or where I am."  
“Noble of you,” she said briefly.

Lyr shrugged. "If you say so. "

She turned and watched the argument between Sigrun and Jón, translating the highlights for Daenerys. Most of Sigrun’s part was a string of epithets, and a demand to know why he’d been stupid enough to join a group like that, et cetera, et cetera. Jon’s half was that he had no choice, being completely destitute and without friends or connections.

“And why is that? Where did you come from, tincan?” Sigrun asked.

Jon clammed up, eyes narrowing. “That’s my business, and mine alone, _ja?_ ”

Daenerys considered mentioning she wanted to know more about the lands they all hailed from, but even from the Ranger, the most she'd learned thus far was three of the gods there, two of those today. Even the boy’s cousin, Tuuri, who professed to have known her before...arriving in Essos, said the woman's accent and mannerisms were foreign to her. The girl rubbed her temples as the khalasar finally began to move. _I can tell she's exhausted too...why does she not sleep_? she thought to herself as the ranger's place at her side was instead taken by Jón, trying to position Lyra and Mormont between himself and the incensed Sigrun. Her mind wandering, Daenerys barely noticed as she considered slipping the ranger a dose of dreamwine when they next made camp, to ensure she'd have at least one decent night of sleep before reaching Vaes Dothrak, though the thought of drugging someone was giving her second thoughts.  
She gave Jón a thoughtful look, and beckoned him over. Grateful for an opportunity to avoid Sigrun, the knight rode over swiftly. “ _Ja?”_

She looked over at Lyra, the ranger absorbed in her own thoughts. “She does not sleep, at least, not well. You seem to know much about navigating this realm of dreams. What can you do?” she asked frankly.

Jón gave the ranger a considering look. “Not much, but I could see if something is causing her to lose sleep. Has to be- she's a soldier, and they know the value of a good night's rest.”  
“Then do so, ser knight.”

Jón paused, then shook. It took Daenerys a moment to realize he was restraining laughter.

“What is so entertaining?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

It takes the big man a minute to control himself. “A _knight?_ You think I’m one of them? Ha! I’m a _Landsknecht,_ and everything I have is by my own hands, not blood or marriage.”

“Then what title do you bear?”

“Serjeant works as well as any, I suppose,” Jon said, shrugging. “And I’ll take a look tonight.”

He spurred his horse forward, up to the tank, and spoke no more.

The day passed uneventfully, and that night, she and her sun and stars slept side by side. He suddenly spoke, gently pawing at her shoulder. "Moon of my life, are you awake?"

She stirred and sat up, slowly. "Yes my sun and stars. What is it?"

"The outlanders... I have been speaking with them."

"What have you been speaking of?"

"Their homelands. The wonders of old, how they don't take slaves. Even the girl you hide from your kin, she spoke of a great war that nearly destroyed the land, and how they refused to take slaves, after."

“And what do you think of this?” she asked.

She felt him shrug, "I do not know. Before...if one had said such things, I would have laughed in their face, and taken what I pleased. But now...their iron tiger, the girl calls it a machine. My khalasar thinks it magic, but I know better. If they make such wonders, perhaps they have honor in the path of building.” He pauses. “If we had done the same, we, the strong men of the grass sea, what would we have accomplished?”

She sat there, silent, before speaking."Whatever path you take, I will follow you to it's end."

He shook his head, pulling her close. "No, moon of my life. You will be at my side and help me pick the path,” he said, “as is only fitting for a dragon’s soul."


	9. Tyrion

The Stark boy had been carried into the throne room by the stable boy, a giant of a fellow named 'Hodor', but had insisted on stumbling the last few feet to the throne. The scene stuck with Tyrion as he, Robb, Maester Luwin, and the two direwolves, Shaggydog and Summer -what Bran was now calling the previously nameless direwolf- sat along a dining table, discussing what had been said. "Robb, while your brother didn't name names, I have some suspicion as to who it was that threw him."

The young man nodded his head in agreement. "I need to send word to my father of this, what Bran said.. is startling."  
"Indeed, but unsurprising. I would ask of you -ask your lord father to not jump down anyone's throat with this information just yet. I must inform my own father. If possible this matter can be settled within my family."  
"And if that fails, and more knives in the night come for my brother?" Robb growled sternly, as the two direwolves, sensing his agitation, glared at Tyrion.  
Tyrion shrugged, "None will come, too many people now know what your brother recalled." He then turned to address the two direwolves, "I came here to help...you don't eat the help." Which brought about a snort of laughter from Robb, and the two guards.  
"The night grows late... let us discuss our options more in the morning, I look forward to the saddle you came up with m'lord." The young Stark stood and stretched, before calling the two direwolves to his side, Summer licking the Imp's hand as he passed by to return to Bran's bedside.  
"More wine before bedding down for the night?" Luwin asked.  
The maester had warmed up quite a bit compared to when Tyrion had arrived carrying some ‘profane spellbook the Citadel would burn sooner than trust its contents’, and yet the rite of the First Men, blood hungry as it had been, had worked.  
He shook his head before speaking again, "I think not. Tonight's discussion has soured my thirst, that, and I have a saddle to draw up. If the boy is to ride he will need it, at least until his strength is back."  
"You are too kind my lord."  
Tyrion shook his head,"Not a lord, that would be my father, and as I said to Bran's elder brother on the Wall, I have a certain fondness for bastards, cripples and other broken things."  
The maester nodded, nursing his mead a spell, before speaking again, "Do you know why Maester Aemon sent you with this tome? Or rather why he chose it specifically. Had I not...had Lady Stark not been so desperate, I would have just as likely thrown the tome in the hearth as let the rite be done."

"I know, you said as much when I suggested it, as for why?...I was told, but the maester asked that I do not spread the tale."  
The truth of the matter was that the blind maester had initially turned Tyrion's request down, and only acquiesced the next morning, after dreaming of a dragon of black and red scales bearing words of warning of a darkness to come, that the spells of the first men would be needed and very soon. Tyrion had been thankful, but privately, he wondered if Castle Black might need a new master soon. Aemon had remained sharp long into old age, but all men must die, as they said in Braavos.  
Luwin quietly nodded, and left for the night, leaving Tyrion to his papers and quill. The night rolled on and still he worked well into the morning Several scrapped designs lay smoldering in the hearth when he set the quill down and rubbed his mismatched black and green eyes. "Yes... this will do nicely till he regains full use of his legs.” The final design was wider than a normal saddle, with straps and wrought iron rods along the stirrups to give the rider additional stability in the seat. Obviously the boy would need help getting mounted, but he had included a quick release built into the horn to allow the rider to easily roll off, just in case the horse went wild. Robb peered over his shoulder looking over the notes. "It seems you've thought of everything, my lord."  
"I certainly try to. I would love to stay and enjoy your hospitality, but I have important things to discuss with my father, and kin to implicate. I'll make sure your horsemaster can follow my design before taking my leave."  
"I will send some of my men with you as far as the crossroads. A raven arrived from Kings Landing last night. My mother seems to believe you orchestrated the knifeman, and wants your head on a pike. She is likely on her return by now."  
"If she wants my head, she'll have to get in line, Cersei has never forgiven me for existing. Still, you are too kind, I see the makings of a great lord in you."  
"Hopefully not for many years." Robb said with a grimace.  
"That, I will drink to."  
Breakfast was served soon after, a simple meal of oat porridge with honey, and sweet light wine from Highgarden. For some reason, Tyrion felt this was the greatest meal he'd eaten in weeks.  
He oversaw the horsemaster examining the saddle plans, the man suggesting minor alterations for comfort to the horse and rider alike. Satisfied it was in good hands, he was saddled with his escort and riding hard before mid-day. They made excellent time, though on reaching the crossroads the group had been caught by a most nasty storm. After bidding his escort a safe trip home, Tyrion managed to find a group of sellswords, and fresh horses at the Inn. As much as he wished to rest, the importance of his journey had given the dwarf unexpected haste. With a meal for the road, he and his new travelling companions, despite the fury of the storm and the muddiness of the road, struck out for Casterly Rock with all haste.


	10. Reynir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this one's an OC-centric chapter, sorry. Will see what I can do about breaking that off.

Reynir felt a hand shaking him awake. He groggily rolled over, and jumped back as Jón's face loomed out of the darkness of the tank. The dark man's hand shot out and covered his mouth, before he raised a finger to his lips and spoke quietly in Icelandic.

"Shhhhh....come with me."

Moving quickly and silently, the big man opened the door of the tank, stepping over a snoring Sigrun as he did so. Reynir followed much more slowly, trying desperately not to step on something, or far worse someone, by accident. Miraculously, he didn’t.

He silently followed Jón through the dark and quiet camp, as they were led into the nearly dark pavilion. He recognized it as the one Daenerys slept in.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, the only source of light being a smoldering brazier with three round shapes nestled in the coals. Daenerys was sitting atop a pile of blankets, clad in a loose blue robe, with Lyra sprawled out beside her like a shadowy lump in the gloom, her white haired head laying across the other girl's lap. She was clad in the black shirt and pants she'd taken to wearing recently, one of the long flowing sleeves hiked up to her shoulder from the way she was laying.

Reynir paused just inside the tent flap, watching magic energy dance and arc along her visible arm in the low light. The light flowed along silver paths, that had the shape of the runes she'd used the first day they'd been deposited in the strange land.

He was about to speak, and point it out, when Daenerys raised a finger to her lips and 'shushed' at him. Reynir clammed up. He didn’t want to be eaten, after all, and that dragon spirit, amazing as it had been, had looked kinda...hungry.

 

Jón quietly whispered to her as he carefully stepped through the gloom, asking some kind of question in the confusing language, and he seemed to relax a little at the response.

He motioned Reynir into the tent proper, and Reynir did so, taking a seat near the big man. “What's going on?” he asked quietly.

“Alright. Lyra here has been having trouble sleeping,” Jón said. “I’ve been asked to take a look, but I’d like you to come along. What little I've been able to get out of Lalli says you're good at getting into havens. I want you watching, at least, and maybe as a helping hand.”

“So I get to help! Great!” Reynir smiled. This was going to be awesome!

 

Jón sat crosslegged, closing his eyes, and Reynir did the same, smiling slightly. Getting into the dreamworld was so _easy_ now. Just as always, when he opened his eyes again, he saw the rocky fields of his parent’s farm. Far away, now.

His fylgja jumped over and began licking his face excitedly.

“Good morning to you too,” he said, disentangling himself from the sheepdog. “We’re going to help someone get some sleep, okay?”

The sheepdog barked, tail wagging.

Reynir stood, and walked to the edge of his haven, a foggy boundary. He reached a massive oak, right at the edge, and leaned back against it. This was their usual meeting place. Even Lalli came, sometimes, though he just sat and watched, barely talking, even though he could be understood here. Reynir didn’t understand it, but he accepted it.

It wasn’t long before his companion turned and stood stock-still, watching the mists. A pair of shapes melted out of it- Jón, and that massive wolf of his.

Reynir nodded happily. “Any idea where her haven might be?” he asked.

 

“Remember that storm?” Jón replied. Reynir tilted his head. That storm had been _huge_ , a mass of chaotic magic, and it had blocked all attempts to calm it. None of them had wanted to enter.

“I think it’s that.”

 

“Okay,” Reynir said, standing straight again.

 

Jón raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

 

“She needs help. Storm or no storm. We should help her, if we can,” Reynir said simply.

 

He quietly slipped from his haven, out along one of the dirt paths leading to a rickety boardwalk a foot over the sea of grass, the form the dreamscape here had. He paused, looking over the dark gray green stalks, some patches having bowed with black and red bunches of seed. In the distance he could make out what looked to be Lalli's haven, the rocky pond raised up some with water spilling out into the deep grass. They'd quickly learned that there was a bottom. Shallow as it was, the grass could still swallow a grown man whole, and leave him lost until he found a high spot or scaled one of the wood towers leading to the boardwalks that served as the twisting paths through the dreamscape.  
  
When Jón caught up to him he quickly stole along the swaying wood platforms, jumping as necessary when gaps appeared, as they often did. They made paths when they could, with his growing collection of runes, Lalli’s runos, or Jón's 'alchemy’, but it was slow going.

 

A full red moon hung low and large in the sky of the dream, unfamiliar stars dotting the sky, with the shattered remnants of the first's sister floating, glistening far above, pale in the sky like some great and shattered egg.  
  
The sheepdog padded along behind him, occasionally growling at one of the silvery tigers lurking below, though the spirits paid no mind to the people above as they hunted the lost spirits of members of the khalasar that had been shamed before their death. Well, that was what Tuuri had said they did, when translating some of the campfire tales. "What did you ask the princess?" he asked Jón, to break the quiet.

“Wanted to know if she’d sedated Lyra,” Jón grunted, leaping across a gap with a thud as he reached the other side. Reynir makes the same jump with ease, feeling weightless in the dreamscape. It wasn't walking on the water, like he'd done before their arrival, but it was close.

"And?" They could see the storm now, a frothing mass of white and black particles of magic, swirling, with no pattern to it save an occasional sweep of a zigzagging line through the whole mass. Occasionally he thought he saw tall dark spires inside the distorted haze.  
  
"Did she?"   
  
He hopped along a row of posts sticking up out of the grass to the edge of what was assumed to be the haven. Here the grass gave way to black and rough craggy rock which had a pockmarked and almost bubbly look to it.

 

Jón shakes his head. “Fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. That's why we're needed, really.”

He looks to the storm. “Here goes nothing,” he says, drawing the long knife at his hip. Here in the dreamscape, it looks...black. Not like the night sky, it instead looked empty. Whatever it was, it intimidated Reynir.

 

He watched with wide eyes as Jon cut into the disturbance, before peeling it back like a thickened pudding skin. He peered through the gap, and though it appeared to be dark, he thought he could hear bells chiming in the distance. As Jon widened the gap he slipped past, careful to avoid the knife, and carefully picked his way from the rocks down to what looked like a black sand beach.  
  
An inner barrier didn't even slow him down, beyond a subtle ripple in his wake, though he waited for Jón to catch up, staring back the way he'd come.   
  
“Between the storm and the light, I wouldn't want to sleep here either,” he said quietly, oddly reserved.   
  
He turned towards the sound of the bells he had heard. He could hear much more clearly now without the interference of the barrier- it sounded like two sledgehammers being struck against each other, not like bells anymore. There was some form of path following a stream that cut through the beach and up the hill, into what appeared to be a copse of odd-looking trees. Their bark had a reddish cast to it, and their trunks, wider than a horse's length, stretched far beyond the storm clouds in the sky.   
_Even the sky is hidden from her_ . he thought, before starting up the trail.   
  
The great trees opened up into a small meadow. The grasses were torn and the inside facing trees were scarred and ripped, like some great bear had torn into them. In the center were two white haired figures.   
  
The first he recognized as Lyra. Though her hair was cropped short, she was clad in the black vest boots and cargo pants she had first appeared in. Opposite her was someone he didn't recognize, though she resemblance to the girl, as though she were an older sister or cousin. She wore gray leather armor over a black shirt and pants, though she wore no boots and her hair, tightly braided as it was, reached down to her waist.. They were both fighting fiercely, and the damage to the grove told the tale quite well, however, Lyra's expression was one of fear, while the elder woman's was that of someone biding their time.

 

He stepped forward, but Jón stopped him with an arm flung across his chest. “Wait. The older one... she's not fighting to kill.”  
  
The two were circling like two wolves wary of each other, but when Lyra caught sight of Jón and Reynir, her greatsword dipped fractionally, confusion painted plainly on her face. Before she could ready her guard again, the other was upon her, batting the sword away like a stick. For an uneasy moment, Lyra stood there, cringing as if expecting to be run through. But the stroke never came, as the woman dropped her blade and pulled the girl into an embrace, whispering something inaudible.   
  
  
Reynir tugged at Jon's sleeve, directing his attention upwards. It seemed the chaotic energies had simply frozen in place, and were starting to fall down, blanketing the haven starting with the two- no, it was now one- figure at the center of the grove. "We need to get to the edge of the haven,” Jón said.

He turned to go, pulling Reynir along.  
  
They were running now, as quick as the water beside them. Reynir felt his arm go numb as some of the energy raining down passed through his shoulder, and restrained a shudder.   
  
He passed through a crack in the inner barrier before diving through the hole Jón had cut, rolling away along the rough rock and out of the way as Jón landed right behind him. Moments later, the rest of the storm of energy collapsed in on the haven, dissipating into a blinding fog.   
  
"That was fun, but let's not do that again," Reynir said quietly. Jón nodded.   
  
As the fog dispersed, they found the white fox, the girls companion spirit, almost as tall as the her and easily mistaken for a wolf now more than ever. It sat, not far from them  on the black sand, it's cobalt and sky blue eyes watching Reynir and Jón. It nodded, and seemed to beckon them back into the haven. Blue will-o-the-wisps darted through the light fog, as though fleeing, as the fox stood and padded along the streambank.   


“Well, let's go. We have to make sure she's okay,” Reynir said, following the fox.

Jón followed, letting him take the lead.

 

The fox never once looked back as he and Jon followed along, the moon behind them lighting the way. The path had changed considerably- now it was black mottled stone in a hexagonal pattern. Occasionally, a pillar along the river side of the path reached up almost to Reynir's shoulder, with a metal lantern perched atop it. As they approached each pillar, the will-o-wisps would dart into the lantern, lighting the path a little more. The metal had a smooth finish and a rippled, almost liquid appearance.

 

The grove had changed very little- the great red trees still stood there, though the damage to the grass and trees had vanished. In the center of the meadow sat a machine, tan brown and white in coloration with a glass canopy to one end and a long skinny tail held high. Above, like an oversized ceiling fan, were several blades protruding off a spike of metal. He slowed, pointing to it, "Any idea what that is?"

Jon paused. “Heard about them, never seen one in action. A flying machine, heavily armed. The Emperor kept a few prepared, but they looked different.”

"I could tell that... I meant what kind? I couldn't read the text in the magazines but I saw photos of ones like it flying."

Jon shrugs, and moves on.

 

The fox padded over to the girl. Her garb had changed- it now seemed to be a mix of what both of them had been wearing- a black combat vest with dark gray leather gloves, boots and knee guards, under that the long black shirt and pants, her hair loose, spilling down beyond her waist.

She was seated next to one of the stubby wings near the front of the machine, with several weapons laid out beside her in the grass. One was her greatsword, while the other two were rifles- one similar to the rifle Lalli carried, the other, however, looked much newer, and was very close to ones Reynir had seen in old pre-Rash magazines about the old wars.

Behind her, far in the shadows, was a shortbow made of some dark material with more of the rippled metal from the lanterns as inlay. She stopped honing a knife as the fox plopped down across her lap, before looking up towards Jon and Reynir, appearing unsure of what to say or do.

 

“Um...hello,” Reynir said, waving awkwardly. “What was that all about?”

 

She looked around as though confirming some things before speaking again. " Me, trying not to lose my sense of self to the ranger....the long haired one I mean."

 

Reynir tilted his head in utter confusion.

 

“So that's what the spell did...the dragon integrated a Valyrian into you,” Jón mused. “So, which are you now? Lyra, or the ranger? Both?”

The big man’s hand drifts back to the knife, sheathed at his hip.

 

She sat there quietly thinking while the fox managed to get turned around in her lap to watch Jón intently, seeming to have no interest in Reynir.  
  
Finally she shrugged. "Both and neither. I think I understand what the dragon was speaking of, when she warned me that I would probably lose myself to the ranger- though in the end we both lost ourselves I guess..."   
  
This explanation only confused it further for Reynir. "Can you please explain that a little better?"   
  
It was her turn to tilt her head, before putting things together, "Ah, you didn't see the dragon's spell. Er, the short of it is that the princess’s guardian spirit placed the soul of one of this land's inhabitants in me, and, well, I've been fighting and trying to preserve my sense of self since then- at first it was an unconscious effort, then I became aware of the change and It's been a battle ever since, especially when I slept..."

 

Reynir sat there for a time puzzling over what she'd said. This talk of souls and dragons was a bit deeper than the Icelander had expected. Finally he looked up and asked another question, "So, who does this make you now?"  
Without much thought, as though explaining the color of the sky, her answer rolled off her tongue. "Lyra Anais Shadowstalker, sworn ranger of Ashwatch and Valyria."   


Reynir nodded and was about to reintroduce himself out of courtesy- that, and he didn't believe he'd actually been introduced to Lyra as anything other than 'the stowaway', now that he thought on it- before he felt the words catch in his throat as he noticed the blur of motion, as Grim slid out from under the flying machine behind the ranger, the spirit’s fangs flashing like moonlight even in the shadows.

Then he sat up with a start in the gloom of the princess's tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy that ending!
> 
> Also, PLEASE leave feedback. Reynir is one of the characters that both Krow and I feel we are poorly equipped to write. I can't speak for him, but I spent my formative years reading a lot of dystopian fiction, and thus someone as...optimistic...as Reynir is difficult to write, at best. Anything you can advise would be helpful.
> 
> Author's Note:  
> Q: Is Jon going to have to deal with a similar problem as Lyra?  
> A: No. Lyra's problem was that the Valyrian who provided the language and knowledge was too similar to her, in appearance and history. Jon has a shard from Mormont, who is different enough to prevent the problem from occurring.


	11. Sigrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WE LIVE!  
> No, but seriously, this one was a doozy. Life and responsibilities ganged up on me, and thus this thing was written paragraph by tortured paragraph.
> 
> As always, please leave a comment after reading, whether critical or otherwise.

“Well, you bet they didn't have any mountains,” Mikkel said, and Sigrun grimaced.

“One mountain. They need more,” she grumbled. This place was worse than Denmark. Grass, grass everywhere.

Though, for a place without trolls, that still had things like that giant tiger Braidy McMustache had talked about hunting, she might make an exception... She dragged her attention back to Mikkel again as the healer began speaking.

"There could be more, behind it. They call it "the mother of mountains" for a reason. It could be like a mother duck with a chain of ducklings behind her."

Sigrun snorted at the mental image of a giant stone duck. "Can you see the city from up there little firebug?" she called up at Emil, his hair almost blinding from the noonday sun. How did he keep it so shiny anyway?.  
"I can see something glittering off in the distance."

Emil called back from his spot on top of the tank.

"Sure it's not your hair?"

Tuuri joined in from the command module window, now rolled down. “I wonder if it's one of the palaces the princess was talking about.”  
"Still going on about castles and palaces?" Sigrun grinned from atop her horse. "I'd bet..." she paused, eyeing Mikkel warily, before continuing, "I'd bet it's just more tents... bigger and permanent, but still tents."  
The big Dane shrugged. "I'm actually inclined to agree on this one, so I won't take you on that. You already owe me thirty kroner anyway."

“Fine. If I do the dishes this week, will you stop hounding me about that?” Sigrun grumbles.

The Dane makes a show of considering, then nods. “That would be acceptable.”

“It's palaces. I'm sure of it,” Tuuri said, grinning slightly. Sigrun _did not_ trust that grin.

Out of all of them, she suddenly realized, Tuuri had changed the most. The pudgy skald she'd met in Bornholm was long gone. After those _hestbaenere_ had been handled, Tuuri had holed up in the tank for a while. It had made her quietly despise the Dothraki even more, and she'd started sparring with Jón to channel it somewhere else. The young man hadn’t even known what had hit him, being thrown just about every time. One day, without explanation, Tuuri had joined them. She’d had to learn how to do everything from the beginning- what had those Finns been thinking, not teaching her even the basics of self-defense?- but she’d been a fast learner, and very, very devious.

Not to be outdone, Emil had joined in as well. Even Reynir had shown up, though the gangly Icelander still had all the aptitude of uncooked bacon when it came to fighting.

It hadn't taken long for the Dothraki to start showing up after that, but most of the horsemen chose to watch, after the first two had cut their braids in shame after losing to her. _That_ resulted in a tense showdown, since she had no idea what to do with the offered braids, but it ended with Mustachio Mcbraidy calling them idiots for considering it a shame to lose in mock combat.

 

She dragged her mind back onto track again. Tuuri had changed, right. Between the heat, the sparring lessons, and the lack of grosslings to keep her cooped up inside, that baby fat had melted right off. The little skald could pass for a fine warrior. Maybe if you squinted a bit.

Other people were changing, too. Several of the princess's handmaids had taken up learning from Tuuri, and even a couple of them, the bolder ones, had practiced against Sigrun.

She paused, considering their skills before nodding to herself. Irri and Jhiqui were the best of them, no surprises there, and the blonde one, Doreah, was kinda terrible, like she'd prefer to fight underhanded…

Her train of thought derailed yet again as she nearly rode her horse over one of the other handmaids. "Ack! Watch where you're going,” she said, yanking hard on the reins.

She doubted the girl had even understood a word of what she’d said, as the handmaiden vanished again. Wait, hadn't that been Lyra, the one who kept following Trying Too Hard to be Scary, aka Jón?

 

"Slippery little fox..." she muttered to herself.

"Something the matter?" Mikkel asked as he rode along, oblivious to the world, nose deep in one of those books Tuuri had loaned him to learn how to talk to everyone else.

"Nothing, just nearly ran down Lord Darkington's little admirer."

He tilted his head with exaggerated horror to look behind them.

"Nearly. Not that I did,” Sigrun said crossly.

 

Even beyond the group of women who now knew exactly how to keep _hestbaenere_ in their place, there were changes. Reynir especially. Still worse than useless in a fight, but something was obviously going well with those sessions with Trying-Too-Hard. Barring that one incident with the pack of agitated squirrels, he was actually figuring out magic. Emil actually got some target practice in, another luxury they couldn't have had in Denmark. He wouldn't make a hunter, but at least now he didn't average half a magazine for every hit.

Twig had shifted the least out of all of them, barring herself and Mikkel. He still kept quiet, and he avoided just about everyone who wasn't Emil, Freckles, or Tuuri.

As for Lyra...that girl still bothered her. She'd been dumped here with the rest of them, and yet she fell in beside Queeny with such ease...that seemed pretty damn suspicious to her. She’d have to get a hold of her, talk it out. She hated doing that.

Of course, Lyra at least had Tuuri to vouch for her. Twig probably could have done the same, if he cared about anything that wasn't his job. Jón, on the other hand...he was exponentially more suspicious. Hel, even if he hadn't dressed like a man who expected a war from ancient times at a funeral, he’d still have been someone to watch. He was nice enough, and a heck of a fighter, even if his wrestling was subpar. But there were things that bothered her. That business with the southern mercenaries, for one. And, like Lyra, there was how easily he’d fallen in with Queen, Mustachio, and the rest.

But, then again, Twig seemed to be alright with him. The scout didn't seem to understand things like everyone else, something she chalked up to being one of those weird forest mages. But if he found them okay…

Sigrun shook her head. She’d keep her doubts to herself, for now. They hadn't done anything worth the trouble of finding out, anyway, and some people- she glanced at Mikkel- had secrets for a reason.

 

Tuuri’s squeeing dragged her out of her rare mopey-thinking and into reality once more. “Huwha?” She stared straight ahead again, straightening.

“Okay. Giant bronze horses. Cool.”

The immense stallions formed an arch between them, a gate without walls, and Sigrun, not for the first time, was struck by how alien this place they had found themselves in was. Trolls would tear this place, and everyone in it, to shreds. But there _weren’t_ any trolls. Ever.

On the other hand, that would explain why everyone was so eager to fight each other out in this strange country. Without the trolls, she sometimes shuddered to think what her fellow Nords would get up to. Hel’s teeth, the prank wars and bar fights were bad enough during winter, imagine how bad it would have been without something squishy and dangerous to smash!

As the horde closed, she saw more and more statues behind the horses, row after row of them. Some raised thunderbolts, weapons, tools to the sky, others were likenesses of strange creatures, still others...they put giants to shame for butt-ugliness. “What the heck are these?” she asks Mikkel softly.

 

Mikkel babbled something to one of the horsemen, then shrugged at the response. “They’re the ‘gods the Dothraki have taken as trophies’, evidently.”

Sigrun looked again at the statues, warily. All these gods, worshipped once, and now broken trophies, like the leviathan’s skull, scraped clean, that graced her parent’s hall. The thought of gods falling….it was unthinkable, but these idols told the truth.

For one terrifying moment, she saw the Allfather, the Thunderer, the Trickster, all the Aesir, arrayed in this...cemetery. Then she shook her head, and banished the idea. No use thinking of it, when there weren’t any idols for the horsemen to steal.

 

She could hear Daenerys and that balding bodyguard of hers, Jorah something, talking up ahead. She didn’t know much of the language, but she did catch the words for ‘battle’, ‘siege’, and for some reason, ‘trident’. Those words, at least, she knew. Priorities had to be kept, after all.

 

Their progress was slowing as more of the Dothraki filed past the assemblage of dead gods and into the city, but she had already turned to follow the tank, Tuuri slowly maneuvering through the rows of people, huts and tents to follow the princess's attendants, who were shouting directions to her barely above the din. Thankfully, she was managing to not clip any of the buildings, and the people had enough sense to get out of the way as they gawked at the machine.

"You'd think they hadn't seen it before," Sigrun said.

 

"These haven't. They're not of Drogo's khalasar." Mikkel said.

“Huh. And I thought there were a lot just with him,” Sigrun said, standing up in her saddle to look over the huge crowds.

 

Eventually they reached the "palace". It was a cavernous wooden feasting hall, its rough-hewn timbered walls rising forty feet, its roof some kind of cloth. Around the hall were broad grassy horse yards fenced with high hedges, firepits, and hundreds of round earthen houses that bulged from the ground like miniature hills, covered with grass.

 

An army of servants had gone ahead to prep for McBraidy and his entourage, and as they filed into the 'palace’, Sigrun saw each rider dismount and hand their weapons over to a servant. Even Jón did it, though the man staggered under the weight of that overgrown hunk of iron he called a sword. She sighed internally.

She'd been warned. Tuuri, Mikkel and even Jón had mentioned that no weapons were permitted in the city. She'd even thought Mikkel was making a joke of it when he said it was a holy disgrace to spill blood with steel there, but seeing was believing, as she handed over her knife. Moving quickly, she then  removed the magazine from her rifle, worked the action, and placed the ejected round back in the magazine, before making sure the safety was on, and handing the weapon to an intimidated-looking servant. Behind her, Emil and Lalli (the latter after some prompting from Tuuri) were doing the same, though Emil had the sense to keep hold of the rest of his Cleanser gear. Nobody else was armed, though Reynir had acquired a staff from somewhere (and how he’d done that without any trees, she’d very much like to know) and had it laid over the horn of his own saddle. Nobody bothered him over that.

 

As they reached the edge of the miniature town, it soon became apparent that some of the pathways would need to be widened for the tank to travel through, and at Mustachio's yelling, attendants began hacking away at the hedges that acted as fencing along the perimeter with stone tools, until the gap was wide enough for Tuuri to drive through. She carefully snaked the tank through the maze of horse pens, firepits and sod covered hill homes until being directed to stop the tank beside one of the larger hills. Sigrun noticed the Dothraki were quickly becoming proficient at giving directions.

 

As she helped pen the horses that had been ridden in the vanguard, Sigrun overheard a three way conversation between Tuuri, Jon and Daenerys, with Mikkel narrating as she and Emil struggled with one of the wilder horses. The beast nearly took off a couple of the Cleanser’s fingers before Sigrun forced it into submission. As a result, she only caught the edge of the multilingual fracas, Daenerys insisting about something or other. After the two of them got the horse into its pen, Sigrun approached the little group, just as Mcstachio and a bunch of his buddies left.

“So, where are we sleeping tonight? I don’t think any of us can take another night in the tank,” she says.

 

“We were just discussing that,” Mikkel says. “One of these...domiciles...belongs to the princess and khal. She has offered to host us there, for the time being.”

Sigrun nodded. “Why not? Safe as anywhere’s likely to be.”

 

She eyed the direction Mcstachio and his bearded followers had gone, hair a-jingling, before asking, "what are they up to? The look like they're on a mission or something."

Once Tuuri had translated, the balding knight- Mormont - replied slowly, in accented and childlike Danish. "A hike up the mother of mountains, to give a sacrifice for a safe return."

"Sacrifice, like a burned goa- Loki's balls, you just spoke Danish!"

He nodded as Tuuri explained. "The princess asked that I teach her, Ser Jorah, and her husband Danish, so we're not always relying on four translators all the time."

"....good idea,” Sigrun said, “but a little more warning next time though."

“Well, I’m not planning anything else, but I’ll let you know,” Tuuri said with an impish grin.

 


	12. Mikkel

Mikkel closed the last of the crew’s files, Sigrun’s, with a decisive clap. He looked back over his shoulder from his position at the tiny desk in the center of their vehicle, a force of habit despite the fact that all the others were inside the khaleesi's hill home.

Sighing, he turned to the next pile, one that had quickly grown beyond all reason. It was lucky he had brought extra supplies. Just in case.

The Icelandic boy’s file he set aside. Nothing new there, even with the ‘training’ he was receiving.

The others, on the other hand...slim, but worth checking over once more. Just to be certain.

 _Daenerys Targaryen._ Exiled royalty, never having seen the kingdom she was supposed to rule. A bit of digging had revealed a few disturbing traditions that might have explained why exactly she was not ruling her ‘home’ across the sea. An arranged marriage to Drogo, though it seemed a loving one. Or as close as women got in this world, judging from the behavior the rest of the horsemen had displayed. Pregnant at fourteen, of all things. She seemed to be growing into the role of a queen, though. Not a threat to them, but worth staying on the good side of.

 _Viserys Targaryen._ Definitely unstable. Anger issues, coupled with an ego the size of a giant. Everyone, even the knight that had been his follower for a time, had long since recognized that he wasn’t worth much, or much of a threat. Mikkel disagreed. A desperate man could accomplish things no sane person would attempt. Mikkel added a note to keep an eye on the man.

 _Khal Drogo_. A man who seemed to have walked out of a storybook. Your typical barbarian warrior, virtually a Nord with a horse, yet underneath the rough exterior was a man who, at just over thirty, had managed to hold together a roving city forty thousand warriors strong. The largest in recent history, if his sources could be believed. Master of horse, bow, and sword, but most importantly a master of tactics.

 _Lyra Strelokova,_  or _Shadowstalker_ . An utter mystery. Claimed- no, that was not how things were, anymore- _was_ a mage, and had exhibited signs of split personalities until roughly a month ago. The two Icelanders claimed to have fixed it, and since she displayed no further symptoms, Mikkel was inclined to agree. He did not intend to ask how, though.

Tuuri, of all people, had found out her history- a member of a scout team from something called the ‘Pacific Alliance’. Her plane had crashed after a stowaway beast had caused havoc midflight, stranding her and her team. A ‘ranger’ back home, some mix of scout and troll hunter. An unforgiving moral code came with the job as well. Despite her being tight lipped on names, locations and numbers, based off what he recalled Finnish scout reports there were maybe four others in her unit, their plane was a pre-rash Russian bomber, and their current location was near Keuruu.

Mikkel turned to the last file, glad for the small foresight of packing the files of people who had vanished into the Silent World. This one was the largest, and the only one that had anything approaching a complete history.

 _Lieutenant Jón Hermansson._ An Icelandic native, who’d somehow found himself working for the Swedish military. His Academy scores may have had something to do with it- his instructors had noted both his skill and _creativity_ with combat magic, right alongside his near-blindness to ‘possible futures’ and equally vast inability to influence 'hostile spirits’.

He’d ended up working with the Swedes for nearly five years after being booted out of the Academy, eventually commanding a mixed-nationality platoon, mostly immigrants like him. Newspaper clippings, back-page blurbs, told a story of postings and battles- skirmishes, really- backed up by official reports. Then...disaster. Hermansson's platoon had been en route to a minor outpost, and had been ambushed by Rash creatures. He had been found buried in a snowbank, in a fetal position, the bodies of his platoon and the grosslings around him.

The words he’d spoken to his rescuers, before falling unconscious, had been, “The world has burned away, steel made smoke.”

The incident had been discreetly kept out of the public eye. An entire platoon being slaughtered was something no-one had needed to hear.

Hermansson had been placed in psychological care, only to vanish less than a week later. A fishing boat had been stolen that very night, and later recovered on the Danish coast.

He’d been given up for dead, and yet here he was, in armor that wouldn't have been out of place six centuries ago, a little more battered, a little more scarred, but still recognizable, despite almost two years of absence.

And there was the not-inconsiderable fact that he could casually bend physical laws to his will. Mikkel was not a fool- though he never took what he saw at face value, he knew the difference between skepticism and denial. Continuing to say magic was not real would be the latter, after the 'reveal’ the man had done over a month ago. And everything he'd done since, especially the curved blade he’d gifted to Drogo. Mikkel had seen him ‘forging’ it, and it had involved taking several normal blades and...combining them into a single dark-hued sword, the same shade as his own claymore. He made a note: _higher-density?_

Mikkel added the last of his recollections to the lieutenant's file, before closing it and putting it aside. He stood and stretched, before exiting the tank, moving more quietly than a man of his bulk rightfully should. He nearly ducked back into the tank as the door to one of the hill homes burst open, disgorging a small horde of the khaleesi’s ‘servants’, led by a familiar hooded figure, and dragging along a struggling and cursing Viserys. Mikkel faded back into the shadows around the tank as two of the girls split off, collecting a pair of swords from one of the storage sheds, before following the group out of the palace and down the road they’d driven up this morning.

Mikkel reentered the tank, opened Lyra’s file, and underlined the word ‘unforgiving’’.

The others quickly found themselves woken, meeting in the empty feasting hall.

The khal made little comment on the affair, once he’d ascertained that no blood had actually been spilt _in_ the city. Sigrun merely nodded approvingly. Jón laughed. Daenerys kept her own face carefully composed.

“I wonder what made the bastard this way,” Jón mused, sitting at one of the benches.

“Neither the grass sea nor what we have gone through have been kind to my brother,” Daenerys says in Westerosi. “He has become bitter, trying to take care of me, avoiding the Usurper’s hired knives.”

Jón cocks his head. “Alright. Now I’m interested. Who’s the Usurper?”

Daenerys smiled, a small, fragile expression. “I keep forgetting you and your fellows are not from this world, and do not know its history.”

Mikkel carefully said nothing as the princess continued speaking. “However, it is a long tale, and while my brother may have told you some on his less sober nights, it is still better left for the morrow, after we have had a chance to settle in.”

A brief expression flitted across Jón’s face at the mention of Viserys being drunk, and Mikkel, pretending to sleep, took note of it as the big man left with Sigrun and the rest of the crew. He also took note of the way the princess’s handmaidens were fussing over Viserys, despite his best attempts to evade them. Only when he managed to spill an entire tankard of fermented milk with his stump did he relent, and leave the hall, followed closely by the handmaiden flock. Daenerys and the khal left soon after. Only then did Mikkel make his way back to his quarters.

Breakfast the next morning was a simple affair, and soon the princess and her retinue of companions traveled off into the city. It didn't take long for Visery to split off from the group, Daenerys sending two of her attendants to travel with him, with a sack of coin. Partway through their trip, she began speaking.

“My father was Aerys Targaryen, Second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the rightful king of Westeros. But Robert Baratheon- the Usurper- rebelled against his rule. He led the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale into rebellion and war, alongside the Lord of Winter, Eddard Stark. He crushed my father’s army and killed my brother Rhaegar at a ford of the river Trident. Then the Lion Lord, Tywin Lannister, appeared before King’s Landing with all his forces, saying he wished to bolster my father’s forces. My father let him in.” Daenerys’s mouth thinned, her eyes growing hard. “But it was a trick. Once inside the city, Lannister’s forces killed without mercy. Rhaegar’s wife and children, the latter barely more than babes, were killed by Lannister’s men, and the man’s own son forsook his oaths as a member of the Kingsguard and slit my father’s throat while he sat on the Iron Throne.”

She paused, eyes lowered. “I was born on Dragonstone, where my mother had fled, with my brother Viserys. A storm destroyed what was left of the royal fleet, but a few loyal men managed to smuggle my brother and I to Pentos. We only spent a few years there, and have been wandering the Free Cities ever since.”

The others had grown still and quiet as Daenerys had spoken, Tuuri translating.

“Why the rebellion in the first place?” Sigrun asked, and Mikkel smiled internally at the captain’s bluntness. He’d been thinking the same thing.

“I don’t know the whole story,” Daenerys asked, “but from what I remember, it was over a sister of Lord Stark’s that Rhaegar had taken as a wife. She was betrothed to Baratheon originally...he did not take the news well.”

Mikkel rubbed his chin, the conversation moving on as they traveled through the bazaar. Stealing a man’s fiancee alone wouldn’t be enough to cause a war, that much he knew from his history lessons. However, he doubted he’d learn any more at the moment, unless luck was with him and he found a sufficiently drunk Viserys. Vicious as the man was at times, Mikkel nonetheless thought he had likely hidden some hard truths from his sister. A gesture to protect her, before his obsession with regaining his ‘rightful’ throne had fully taken hold?

His train of thought was interrupted by the return of the obsessed Targaryen in question, he and the two handmaidens wrangling a clinking cart between them. Viserys seemed less withdrawn than before, showing off his new purchases happily, bragging about how he’d out-haggled an old crone from Volantis. While most of it seemed to be wine or ale, he also had several new sets of fresh clothing, and even a few Westerosi gowns for Daenerys. Curiouser and curiouser.

Even the handmaids had found time to make their own purchases, probably while Viserys was getting fleeced by the Volanti merchant. Jhiqui had found a shortbow made of a dark, almost stone-like wood, while Lyra- in her disguise as ‘Anais’, of course- was carrying a package, dirt-stained and still wrapped in it’s oil-soaked cloth. According to her, it was a sword found in a tomb, but since it had been clearly left behind by the robbers who had cleaned the place out, the merchant hadn’t charged her more than an average blade, or even unwrapped the blade from it’s cloth.

Jón nodded along with the tale, then made his goodbyes, saying something about meeting a smith. Why the man needed to talk with one for was a mystery, given his abilities, but Daenerys let him leave.

Mikkel shook his head, and focused on the people around him once more. But not before resolving to get the full story of the rebellion out of Viserys.

In the end, it took nearly a month.

In that short time, Vaes Dothrak changed. The women especially. Sigrun’s brand of hand-to-hand combat had spread throughout the entirety of Drogo’s khalasar, and into much of the others in Vaes Dothrak as well. It had gotten to the point that the Dothraki men had almost entirely given up on their usual methods of finding a woman, as the woman in question was vastly more likely to object with a below-the-belt strike, followed by kicking the man while he was down.

Khal Drogo had begun holding a court, of a sort, setting up a daily audience in one of the pavilions of his palace, and settling disputes between the men of his khalasar, even hearing the cases of the women and slaves. Almost always, he found in favor of the riders, but there were times when he ruled in favor of the women, and one memorable instance where he found in favor of a slave who had a complaint about his master shorting the water rations, decreeing the slave and master should switch places for a moon’s turn, as the slave obviously had more sense than the master. This had led to some japes and grumbling from the other khalasars, which had quickly stopped when Drogo had offered to personally fight any man who wished to stop him from doing as he pleased.

Viserys had changed even more strikingly. While the arguments with his sister remained, he seemed to have lost much of his venom alongside his sword hand. Either that, or the fear of Lyra lurking just out of sight was enough incentive for him to restrain himself. How on earth the man hadn’t figured out that the ranger and 'Anais the handmaiden' were one and the same, Mikkel did not know.

Speaking of Lyra, she and Jón had been spending a lot of time together, working on some project. Whatever it was, it involved a lot of runes, circles, and quietly arguing. The Dothraki tended to steer clear of this, and of the training Jón still gave Reynir. The latter, at least, was justified. Nobody wanted a repeat of the squirrel incident.

"So, lord prince... what do you remember of the rebellion?" Mikkel asked quietly. Viserys was sprawled out in the shade of the tent, leaning against one of the low wood benches they had dragged in to watch some of the riders as they broke in some of the wilder horses. "What I've learned is...somewhat lacking, and I'd love to hear the tale from someone who lived it."

The prince sighed and sat up a bit straighter, reaching for a tankard of water on the bench ahead of him rather than the wine flask he'd been nursing since breakfast, grumbling as he sipped it, "I knew you'd want to know about that eventually...you've asked just about everything else of me." He carefully set down the drink, staring down into fading embers of the nearby cook-fire, bones from the morning’s breakfast cracking slowly, before he rapidly looked down into the tankard. "I ask only that you not let my sister know of some of this...I'd rather she not think ill of our father.. I buried it...lied...I didn't want her to know some of the things he did..."

"I swear it, she will not learn anything you speak of from me," Mikkel promised.

"What she told you is mostly as it was...the spark that started the rebellion was our brother Rhaegar, taking Lord Stark's daughter Lyanna for his own bride. But that was just the spark, it was only a smolder and could have been stopped had my father acquiesced when Lord Stark- the old one, Rickard- and his son Brandon rode to request he discipline my brother...instead he..."

"Had them executed?"

The prince shook his head, took a gulp of water, then continued, "No. Worse. He allowed Lord Stark a trial by combat. I remember that terrible day in the throne room...I'll never be able to forget..Stark walked in, clad in his armor, before the Kingsguard tied a rope to his irons and suspended him...then the pryomancers ignited a brazier of wildfire beneath him. He said...fire was the champion of our House, and so all Stark had to do was...not burn. His son Brandon was there too...they tied a noose in such a way that when he reached for his sword, the cord tightened…” The prince paused for a bit, composing himself before continuing, "...I watched from the gallery as Lord Stark's armor melted and he cooked alive...while his son choked himself to death trying to save him... that, along with the execution of the nobles and knights that had accompanied the Starks, then demanding the heads of Robert Baratheon and the remaining Stark boy from their guardian- that was essentially our father just fanning the flames and pouring wildfire onto a smoldering tinderpile..."

"Gods..." Mikkel said.

"That's not all... even though I and my mother had been shipped off to Dragonstone, I continued to hear some things...little snippets as the rebellion worsened and grew out of control...at the end I'd even heard my father planned to burn down all of Kings Landing...I asked Ser Darry if this was true and he admitted that he had helped oversee the Alchemists in caching wildfire throughout various parts of the tunnels and sewers of the city.”

“While it is true that Ser Jamie killed my father...I have to wonder if he knew as well." With the retelling finally finished, Viserys just seemed drained, paler and frailer looking than usual.

"Is there anything else you might ask of me today Mikkel?"

He shook his head as the prince stumbled to his feet, helped up by Lyra before he slowly walked over to one of the corrals, to watch Sigrun make her third attempt at capturing and saddling a particularly wild stallion, "Twenty honors says she does it this time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> To forestall the various 'Viserys is OOC' complaints I see heading our way: That. Is. A. Plot. Point. You'll have to wait until a couple chapters later to see just how we pulled it off, though.
> 
> Second, yes, we used the 'Mikkel is a Nordic Council Agent' headcanon. Because we find it both believable and, more importantly, fun. Now Daenerys gets her own overweight spymaster!
> 
> Third: Yes, Sigrun did just cause a fairly major shift in Dothraki behavior. Sigrun is goddamn terrifying to the more superstitious Dothraki anyway, due to how her crew appeared and, you know, having a gun, not even considering she's killed things far scarier than a bunch of half-rate Mongols with her teeth. Given several months of travel with them, cementing the idea that a woman can do whatever she damn well pleased, is going to cause a change, especially since Drogo at the very least listens to her.


	13. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ragnarok: Love this chapter. The butterflies are kicking in here, and hard.

The silvery light of a half moon was streaming through the window as a thundering pounding came from the chamber doors, waking Cersei Lannister from her troubled sleep. Groggily, she climbed from the bed as her chamber maid stretched a bit more fully across the mattress. She carefully opened the door a slit and stared at the rough shaven leather and mail clad guardsman standing beyond the threshold. When he wasn’t immediately forthcoming with whatever message he had been sent to deliver, she snapped sleepily “…Well? Out with it, don’t just dawdle there, why did you wake me?”  
  
“The king requests a meeting of the small council, M’lady.”  
  
“The king can wait until morning.” She didn’t wait for a response as she shoved the door closed and paced back to her bed, thoughts streaming through her head. Could Lancel have loosed his tongue against me? Did Stark find something, and tell Robert? No… Robert would have come himself... She continued to pace until her chambermaid finally stirred. “Is something the matter?”  
  
“No nothing’s the matter, go back to sleep.” Cersei snapped. She ceased her pacing and took a sip of chilled wine, thinking over the last week. Robert had returned from his hunt early, and barred himself in the Sept of Baelor three days ago. His fellow hunters claimed the king had had a ‘religious moment’ when ‘the Smith had smote a stag right before the king’s eyes’. By all accounts, he had spent the last three days in fervent prayer much to the annoyance of the High Septon, who was entirely unaccustomed to his majesty’s presence. But it seemed someone, or something, had finally dragged him out.  
  
Blast it all, Lancel was only supposed to get him drunk and hurt hunting, not so filled with wine he was seeing the gods!  
  
Grumbling like a caged lioness, she woke her chambermaid and redressed in a dark red gown, before making her way from her chambers, carefully masking her frustration and doubts as she reached to open the chamber door.  
  
Ser Meryn fell into step behind her silently following along to the council chambers, where judging from the noise some kind of argument was already taking place. Ser Preston, the shortest member of the kingsguard, protected the door. He stumbled a bit as he opened the door, allowing the voices to clearly be heard as she stepped into the council chambers. Even from across the room, she could smell the stink of Robert, unwashed as he was from his three day vigil and gods know what else during his hunt. Sitting on the table were a myriad of weapons, all of which sparkled under the torchlight of the chambers.  
  
Robert’s voice boomed across the room, lacking its usual wine soaked bluster, “-It was a message from the gods. This was the first time I’d directed it to happen. I’ve sinned and they sent me a warning. I need to repent, at once!”  
  
“So you say,” tittered Varys, “But I’m afraid those birds have already flown away, but I shall do what I can...with your leave my lord?”  
  
Robert nodded, and the eunuch bowed before leaving the chambers, his slippers whispering against the stone floor, offering a courtly nod and a “Your Grace” as he moved past her to leave.  
  
Renly spoke up at once, “Brother, I wish you would reconsider this plan for your children… surely this wasn’t an Omen.”  
  
Robert stood there quietly brooding while Cersei waited like a statue, heart hammering in her chest as the mention of the children. Gods be good he knows… Finally, after what seemed like an age, Robert spoke quietly, and gravely,  
  
“My mind is made, the gods threatened my line. It was before my very eyes that these weapons rained from the sky and destroyed a magnificent stag, the sigil of my house. I will split them away from here to keep them safe. Ned, you’ve been making preparations to send your daughters home to Winterfell. I would send Tommen with them to foster there.”  
  
It gave Cersei no satisfaction to see Lord Eddard put off balance like this, not with the sudden shock of her children being split apart.  
  
“Renly, you will see to it that Joffrey reaches Casterly Rock, to the care of his grandfather...it’s been long overdue that he learn from a better example than mine own. On your return, you shall take Myrcella with you to Storm’s End.”  
  
Cersei stood there, mouth agape, trying to comprehend what was being said as Robert looked up from the weapons lying across the table.  
  
Before she could formulate something to say, Littlefinger spoke up from where he was seated in the shadows, examining a dagger from the table. “I will admit, these are fine weapons. Too fine for even castle forged steel, comparable to Valyrian even, if they weren’t so heavy...what if, Your Grace, these were an attempt on your life? They say in Oldtown one of the novices lit one of the glass candles recently, perhaps it was some kind of magic.”  
  
“It had to be the gods, Baelish. This nonsense about those ‘others’ in the princess’s entourage being magicians is insanity.” growled Renly, “And besides, if it were the case, why would they have not just simply killed Robert instead of giving him a chance? The princess has no reason to not try for his life.”  
  
“Please excuse my theorizing then.” Baelish sounded almost affronted.  
  
The queen ignored the discussion as it continued in the background while she tried to come to terms with what was being decided. Tommen a hostage of the Starks, and Myrcella a hostage of Renly, it was too much!  
  
“No.”  
  
Robert looked up from the hammer he was examining, the words ‘child killer’ engraved clearly on the head. “What?”  
  
“No. My children will not be split apart like this! None will go to Storm’s End, none will go to Winterfell, and none will go to Casterly Rock!” A glimmer of anger crossed Robert’s face as he stared at her.  
  
“This is not something you can question, Cersei.”  
  
“Then why even have me trotted out for this meeting then?” she spat.  
  
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have called for you. I wasn’t sure whether to send Myrcella to Storm’s End or Dragonstone, or keep her safe here....I even considered Dorne-”  
  
“Out of the question. They would take her life for being my child.”  
  
“I had assumed as much that you would respond that way…Dragonstone is defensible, but no place for a child, which left here or Storm’s End….In the end, I want your advice for which of the Kingsguard to send there as well.”  
  
Cersei growled to herself quietly, pacing the length of the table as she mulled over her thoughts, before finally organizing them. “Ser Jaime should be there to protect Joffrey….I would feel more comfortable with Ser Barristan protecting Tommen or Myrcella…why are you even asking me, if you are so intent on sending them away?”  
  
“You know the Kingsguard just as well as I do, Cersei.” Robert continued, maddeningly calm, “Your opinion of them matters in this count, you’ve seen how they are with the children...more than I have. Regardless I have a….task for Ser Barristan that must be done, pick someone else.”  
  
“Ser Meryn and Ser Arys then.” She replied, realizing only after that her response had almost been too quick.  
  
Robert rubbed his eyes and took a draft of water from a pitcher before nodding, “I was thinking those two would be good choices as well.”  
  
  
The rest of the night was a confusing blur, members of the small council slipping off into the night as plans were made and decided on, one involving something to do with Stannis and Renly’s argument over Storm’s End, while another had to do with requests for men the Night’s Watch had made recently. It was near morning when Cersei sat up in her chair with a start. She tried to focus on what had just been said, warily looking around the table. Only Stark, Robert and Ser Barristan remained at this point.  
  
The queen rubbed her forehead feeling as though she’d drunk too much wine, over the course of the night she’d eventually agreed to send Tommen to Winterfell and Joffrey to Casterly Rock, but only if Myrcella remained in King’s Landing. At least she'd kept that much. Damn Robert and his newfound spine! This all seemed like a dream...  
  
  
It still seemed so four days later, when she was hugging Tommen tightly before he made his way up the gang plank onto one of the Royal Galleys, captained by some plain-looking man that Stannis had brought with him from Dragonstone when he had arrived to argue with Robert over the decision he had made about Storm’s End.  
  
  
It felt like a nightmare when hardly a week later, when word reached her by raven that the Mountain had fallen in single combat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of butterflies, by (rough) chronological order:
> 
> Appearance of the Crew and Co in the Dothraki Sea  
> Bran's Visions  
> Tyrion talks to Aemon at Wall, takes First Men spellbook with him  
> Spell is used to heal Bran  
> Tyrion leaves inn early, avoiding Catelyn Tully and his kidnapping in canon  
> First Eddard chapter- reports reach them of the Crew joining Drogo and Daenerys  
> Somewhere in between the Dothraki Sea and Vaes Dothrak, Jon does the fylgja spell. Viserys threatened by Lyra after getting put in his place by Drogo and Dany.  
> Vaes Dothrak- Viserys loses a hand.  
> This chapter's events....


	14. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short one this time around.

Well, somehow, he had the damn thing working. Jón smiled slightly as he made the necessary adjustments to the massive array.

It had taken weeks.

The weapons themselves were easy- he knew the methods of making alchemist's steel more than well enough, and his job had been made easier by the fact that no-one would ever wield them. No need for the spells that would feed off the movement of the blade to keep it light and wieldable.

What had eluded him was the _targeting_. Alchemy provided no real way to center a specific target, and Jón had no wish to drop the payload on King’s Landing and hope he got lucky. He didn't want to kill innocent people.

In the end, it had been Lyra who’d helped him with that.

 

“I need help with a sword,” she’d said a month ago. Jón’s eyes had drifted towards the empty scabbard at her belt, and he’d raised an eyebrow.

“I want you to reinforce the one I’ve bought,” she’d clarified. “You can do that, right? Remake it into something better than ordinary steel?”

“For a price,” he’d replied, leaning back in his chair. “The Dothraki are fond of gift-giving, but I’m a mercenary, and I don’t work for free.”

“I’d guessed as much. And I still feel I owe you, for the single combat with the khal...name your price.”

Jón had rubbed his chin. “I’ll show you how to make it, if you show me how to find someone I’ve never seen before, across a continent.” He’d paused. “You have a spell that can do that?”

The expression that had flitted across her face, like a mental double-take, had been interesting on its own. She’d nodded, though. "...I have a spell that.... _might_ work for what you asked, but my confidence in it's been shaken lately...I haven't been able to sense my team with it since we arrived here, so...I don't know if it's what you'd need or not."

He’d shrugged. “The technique is really all I’d need. Do we have a deal?”

He’d extended a hand, she’d shaken it, and the rest had been easy.

 

It had taken three more weeks, to fashion the weapons, finish the array, and show Lyra the intricacies of the arrays that would let her shape metal like clay in her bare hands.

The blade she had made hadn’t been alchemist’s steel, much to his regret, but it had been interesting. Hardened metal formed the spine and edges, while the softer and more flexible metal of the original held it together. A useful blade, and beyond what any of the smiths that frequented the markets here were capable of.

The spell she’d shown him in return had been absurdly simple, the way most non-alchemy spells were. A few runes and wards, and it had clicked together nicely, in that unquantifiable way spells did. Unlike Nordic runes, it had slipped easily into the shell of the array he’d started constructing, melding almost perfectly.

And now, it was finally paying off. Jón fed power into the array, feeling it come to life piece by piece, and grinned.

He needed to speak the name of whoever he intended to track, and it would give him what he needed. Enough for him to open a portal high above his target, and drop half a ton of alchemist's-steel weaponry on him.

Jón had heard of overkill, but believed the concept to be invalid.

“Robert Baratheon,” he said, and he felt the tracking spell come to life, anchoring the other end of the teleportation array.

To no surprise whatsoever, he felt Lyra approaching, just as the portal started to open. A spell of this magnitude could attract the attention of mages for miles around. He wasn’t trying to hide things, after all.

“Interesting...I was wondering what you were trying...to…” Jón glanced her way, seconds before she started yanking on the skeins of magic that held the array together. Jón slammed another array into place, holding her off, patching the damage, but now the portal was going wild, arcs of unbound energy streaking out from the site of the array.

Jón scrambled to his feet as another assault smashed through the hurried defenses, destroying any semblance of control he might have had over the portal, and he drew his claymore, the blade long since retrieved from the Dothraki and kept safe. “The hell are you doing?!” he roared.

“Stopping a mistake,” she shouted back, reaching for her own blade, as the magic in the portal array began to go completely out of control. Jón ducked a flare of lightning, and swung hard as he straightened, the blade bouncing off her block.

“You mean _Robert?_ That man’s reign is built on the blood of children!” Jón snarled, pressing the attack.

"And Aerys’s was atop burned corpses!" The ranger jumped back, before whirling her bastard sword around at Jón with unexpected speed, the impact sent a shock through him even as the blade shattered. "Revolutions don't just happen out of nowhere Jón!"

Another lightning bolt streaked between them, forcing them to disengage for the briefest moment before he pressed forward again, swinging down to finish the shattered remnants of her blade before she could draw the other.

“I’m not an idiot! But Daenerys is not Aerys. You’ve buggered us all, and for -”

 

The world tasted yellow for a moment, and went dark. When his sight cleared, he found himself in a small courtyard.

A small courtyard, with a large group of men in armor and swords spread throughout it.

One of whom currently had Jón’s own claymore embedded roughly halfway through his head.

A shadow fell over Jón from behind, and he half-turned.

That was a _very_ large man, and he did not look happy.

Jón nodded. “Morning.”

The dead man's legs gave way, and he fell off Jón's blade with a thud.

The _very_ large, very unhappy man reached for his sword.

Jón was faster, and his blade carved up and out through the man’s armor, sending blood spraying as he spun, opening the man from left hip to right shoulder. Jón turned to look at the other men, a savage grin appearing as the massive man’s corpse fell to the ground. “Now, how ‘bout we talk things through? Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

  
They looked at each other, nearly a dozen men, then back at Jón. All of them raised their swords at once. Jón sighed. “Dammit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is alchemist's steel?  
> -Trade secret. But if you know your metallurgy and chemistry, and have the ability to change both at will...well, you get interesting results.  
> What happened with Lyra's new sword?  
> -Nothing, it was the big bastard sword she arrived with that broke.  
> 


	15. Lalli II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this fast, yay.
> 
> As always, leave feedback in the comments.

He’d been woken up, drawn to the surge of magic, Emil following sleepily in his stride like an befuddled retriever, and then... _this._ Disorientation, and a taste that was somehow yellow.

He stood in a stone hallway, fortified like Keuruu, like home, Emil behind him. The Swede hadn’t made the transition as well as he had, judging by the sound of vomit splattering behind him.

Lalli heard a sound made familiar by the time with the horse-riders- the clash of steel on steel, and he moved quickly to a door that seemed in the right direction.

The ranger and the armorer were somewhere here, he figured. Like Emil and him. They had been fighting, last he’d seen- that might explain the noise. Though _why_ they were trying to kill each other eluded him. Apparently some people liked that sort of thing.

 

Mentally shrugging, he found himself in another hallway, this one with windows, and he looked out onto the courtyard.

 

Well, that _was_ Jón. Why he was carving his way through the people around him was unknown. Had the armorer gone mad?

 

Lalli mrred in irritation as he found the stairs, moving quickly, Emil following reluctantly.

By the time they found a door to the courtyard, the armorer had finished off the last of the soldiers. The big man turned as Lalli opened the door, then relaxed as he noticed them.

" _Så ni fick släpas längs ... undrar hur många vi halade med oss ..._ " he mused in Swedish, earning a stare until he repeated himself in Westerosi, "So you two got dragged along...wonder how many we hauled with us…"

 

Lalli looked around. “This isn’t Dothrak, and it’s not home. Where are we now?” He looked around. He could see the armorer’s wolf lurking around, but not the ranger’s companion. “And where is the ranger?”

 

The armorer shrugged. “No idea. She’s the one who buggered the spell. She could still be at Vaes Dothrak, or nowhere at all. Not my concern.”

 

Lalli looked out at the bodies, over a dozen, one a giant of a man in plate armor. “Why?”

 

Jón looked confused. “Why what? Me killing them? They would have done the same to me.”

 

“That makes no sense.”

 

“People don’t, as a rule, _Späher._ ” Jón looked around. “You think that’s the last of them?”

 

A sudden buzz, and Lalli ducked instinctively, a _thwack_ coming from behind him even as Emil shouted in shock and pain. His rifle went up, tracking the source, and he sighted on the bowman, the man already drawing another arrow.

Line up the sights. Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger.

The bowman topped off the wall as the _crack_ of the rifle echoed off the stones, and Lalli turned, hands going for the spare medical kit he had.

Lalli drew his knife, cutting the cloth away carefully as Emil slid to the floor, shivering. Blood was spreading, but the arrow had gone through his upper left arm cleanly, not hitting the bone, the head a sharp needle rather than a hunter’s broadhead. Lucky.

“This will hurt,” he said in Swedish, and Emil nodded, something flinty in the Swede’s eyes.

Lalli yanked the arrow free, dousing the wound in medicinal alcohol and wrapping it tightly in clean bandages, layering it until Emil’s blood stopped soaking through.

 

He heard Jón take in a breath behind him, and he answered, “Mikkel made sure we learned some, after we came here.”

 

People always asked _how_ he knew to do things, rather than simply noting the skill. Frustrating.

 

“Fair enough,” Jón replied. “Think you can watch him, while I go see if there’s anyone who can tell me where the _hell_ we are?”

Lalli nodded, helping Emil to his feet. “Any more?” he asked, looking over the bodies again.

 

Jón shrugged. “Not likely, ‘less there’s a war on.” He pointed up, and Lalli followed his finger to the banner floating at the top of the small tower. Three dogs on a yellow background. A raven flew out of the window there, circled once, and flew off.

“I’ll head up there, see what I can spy.”

 

Lalli shrugged, and looked around. There, an open-sided building. A stable, judging from the smell of hay. Perfect if more bowmen came. He helped Emil over, the Swede shaky but still speaking. His Swedish, at least, was somewhat understandable. Jón’s was accented harshly enough to make it difficult to turn into Danish. Emil’s was better, softer.

Still, Lalli had to tune out the babble for now.

 

The stable was quiet. The horses didn’t seem to mind the stink of blood coming from the courtyard. Odd.

One had a red ribbon on it’s tail. A kicker. Dangerous.

He sat Emil down in an unoccupied corner away from the horse as a boy, young, younger than Lalli, stepped out, hands up.

“Don’t hurt me, sers, never did nothin’, just took care of the horses-”

Scared. Smelled like he’d soiled himself. Not a threat. He put a finger to his lips, and surprisingly, the boy understood, and shut up.

A few minutes later, Jón reappeared, dragging a man in grey robes with him. The boy made a small noise of dismay at the appearance of the blood-spattered fighter.

“There’s a village a bit south of here,” Jón said to Lalli. “Walkable.”

 

He nodded to the boy. “How many here?”

 

The boy stammered incoherently.

 

“How. Many.” Jón repeated slowly.

 

“Uhh...thirty, counting ser, his men, and everyone else. Thirteen men with ser.”

 

“Good. That means there’s no more nasty surprises. Get the staff together, tell them Clegane’s dead. Deal with the bodies, too.”

 

The tone, familiar. Memories of basic training. Another puzzle about the armorer. Jón shoved the grey-robed man towards Lalli and Emil, and Lalli slid out of the way as the man stumbled.

 

“Emil, _titta på den här mannen. Låt honom inte skicka några meddelanden._ ” His tone shifted, to concern. “ _Du passar för det, soldat?”_

 

Lalli tried to think past the man’s accent. He wanted Emil to watch the grey-robed man...why? Then he’d asked if Emil was fit for duty. That much was obvious- the Swede would be alright, provided he didn't need to use his bad arm.

He shrugged as Emil snapped a shaky salute with his good arm and followed the grey-robed man out of the stable.

“You want to come with me?” Jón asked. “I’ll be heading down into the village, see how they react. Could use someone to watch my back.”

  
Lalli considered, and shook his head, before following the grey man. He’d learn what he could from him.


	16. Tyrion II

He had expected a bleak place, maybe even an empty village, depending on the elder Clegane’s mood and level of boredom.

What he hadn’t expected was to see most of the village hungover, the remnants of what had evidently been a great celebration scattered everywhere.

He rode his pony into what passed for the main street of the village, followed closely by a pair of red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen, and one of the sellswords from the inn in the riverlands, a man named Bronn.

His father had wanted him to look into Clegane’s holdings. They hadn’t answered to raven or rider, and that worried Tywin immensely. Not knowing where your trusty eight-foot-high madman was would inspire anxiety in any man.

This, however, made no sense. Either Clegane had somehow developed a fondness for revelry that did not involve weaponry, smashing, and blood, or Sandor had finally wriggled away from his dear sister and taken his elder brother’s head.

“And then there’s the possibility that Clegane threw a festival...for gods only know what kind of reason…”

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Bronn said.

“I’m quite aware of that.”

Their horses clopped their way up the path. It was early yet, and few people were out, but those who were did not bow, watching him and his guards carefully. It was... disconcerting, to say the least.

The gate to Gregor’s little castle stood open, and the banner had been torn down. From within, the sound of steel clashing on steel could be heard dimly.

“Nothing gained by standing around speculating,” he said, spurring his pony forward. “Let's see what going on.”

The courtyard was filled with men doing drills with sword and shield and spear. As Tyrion watched, a group of them charged a cluster of targets, a wall of shields in a formation that was excellent, for smallfolk at least.

The moment they rode into the courtyard, practice halted entirely, as the men stared down Tyrion and his guards. After a moment, a burly, heavily bearded villager stepped forward.

“What’s your purpose here, mi'lord?”

“Lord Tywin sent me- there must have been a raven.” For a moment, he considered pointing out that whatever poor sod Gregor had set to watch had more likely eaten the raven than gotten a message from it, but decided against it. “Ser Gregor has been...quiet as of late. Silence is not his manner, and my lord father has grown concerned that Ser Gregor has acted on events that have not grown to fruition as he had expected….is the master of the keep present?”

The burly man nodded. “Follow me.”

As Tyrion dismounted- thankfully not needing assistance for once- he heard the man yell in a perfect parade-ground serjeant’s tone: “Alright, you dim buggers! Let’s see if you can turn with those pig stickers of yours! By the left-” followed closely by the sound of drumming feet.

Tyrion sniffed. The sharp, coppery scent threading through the air was familiar.

“Blood.” Bronn said simply. “You can wash it away, but the stink stays for a while.”

“Not uncommon here, from all I’ve heard of the Mountain.”

The burly man led them through the courtyard to the main hall of the keep, a dim and smoky room at the base of the wide, squat tower.

Tyrion was a quarter of the way through the room before he noticed the figure sitting at the head of the great table. Black plate armor, a helm shaped like a dog, face in shadows. Almost certainly the Hound, though the way he was seated was strange, elbows on the table as he hunched forward, studying something also in shadow on the table’s surface. “Good morrow, Ser Clegane. It appears your elder brother will be ‘away’ for some time…” The figure tilted his head to look straight at Tyrion, and the dwarf realized several things in quick succession as he stopped dead halfway down the table. First, the helm was shaped like a wolfshead, not a dog. Second, the man at the table had no burns. Third, a grey-haired young man, almost a boy, had slipped behind them, holding a wood-and-iron tube like one would a crossbow. Something in the boy’s expression, seen out of the corner of Tyrion’s eye, sent a shudder down his spine.

“I would say it is time to take our leave, but I fear that is no longer an option,” Tyrion said.

Sighing, he turned to face the armored stranger again, doing his best bow, though it was still unintentionally comical, with the way his left leg swung out to the side. “My apologies, you were not who I was expecting. May I ask who the new master of the house is?”

The armored man chuckled, and stood. “Jón Hermansson. And yourselves?”

Tyrion frowned. One would think deformity would at the very least provide one with a reputation. “Tyrion of House Lannister, and Bronn the sellsword.”

The armored man went very still.

“Lannister, eh? Interesting…” The armored man gestured, and the torches lining the walls flared brighter, lighting the room fully. “Lalli. _Inget behov av att hota dem.”_

After a moment, the grey-haired boy nodded, and slipped past the armored man to the staircase behind him, vanishing upstairs.

“Hrrm….I don’t know that tongue, though your Westerosi sounds like a northman’s…” Tyrion mused. There was plenty of mystery about this man- how _had_ he managed to brighten those torches like that?- and while he liked mysteries, he liked living more, and he was currently feeling as if he’d walked into a wolf’s den. Appropriate, given the man’s helm.

Somehow, he doubted Lannister gold would save him if the man turned hostile.

Jón turned back to face them, and took off his helm. The man’s face was young, beneath the scar that stretched from jawline to temple. The eyes, though- those were older than anyone’s had a right to be. Jón set the helm down, and nodded politely to them both.

“I don’t have a bloodline claim to this place,” he said softly, “but I have one made of iron, fire, and blood. If necessary, I’ll keep it the same way. You follow me?”

Tyrion rubbed his chin, thinking it over. “Quite well...and Westeros has a long history of taking things by conquest…” he said, starting to pace. “And there's no love lost for the Mountain, I have no illusions about that. The only real fly in the pudding is the Hound…” He stopped and turned to face Jón rapidly. “You’re no knight, are you...no, by your manner I’d measure you as a sellsword.”

Jón nodded again. “Aye, I’m a _landsknecht_. What of it?”

“A wha- nevermind. That complicates things though, you’d need to be knighted or given lordship to be granted the land properly...Robert might do it just to spite my sister, but that still leaves Sandor with a legitimate claim, even if he doesn't want it…”

“A bit of mead or bread, perhaps?” Bronn said with a bored air, as Tyrion continued to pace. “The road here was long and dusty, and it seems we’ll be here a while.”

Jón poked a thumb over his shoulder, at a set of doors near the staircase. “Kitchens are through there. Don't cause any trouble. I’ll be in the courtyard when you figure out what to do.”

With that, the man picked up his helm, and strode past them on his way out.

Bronn vanished into the kitchens, and Tyrion took a seat at the grand table, turning the puzzle of Jón Hermansson over in his mind. After nearly an hour's thought, he finally reached what seemed like a reasonable conclusion.

True to his word, Hermansson was in the courtyard, sparring with a younger man, scarcely more than a boy. The man had acquired a massive greatsword from somewhere, and seemed very adept at it. Tyrion caught the dark color of the blade, and his eyes widened. Another piece to the puzzle, right in front of him.

After watching Hermansson defeat his partner, pressing the blade to the blonde-haired boy’s neck before separating, Tyrion coughed.

Hermansson nodded to his opponent, then walked over to Tyrion, taking off his helm once more.

“Well?”

“Considering you seem to have no intention of causing the realm further trouble, it should be easy to let you keep Clegane's land as your own, if…”

“If?”

“...you accept being a Lannister bannerman, as House Clegane was.”

Hermansson's eyes narrowed. “No.”

“No?”

“I _will not_ tie myself to a man who ordered the death of children,” Hermansson snarled. “I make my own way. I won't start trouble, but if Tywin thinks he can put reins on me...he’s got another thing coming. And yes, I know about the Reynes. I am not them.”

Tyrion took a step back, utterly shocked. He spent a few minutes trying to regain his composure, and failed.

“We should be on our way now,” Bronn said helpfully, “it’s been... interesting.”

Hermansson let them go with a smile and a wave.

It was an hour down the road when Tyrion finally pulled himself together, and he surprised them both by laughing so hard he nearly fell out of the saddle.

"Gods be good... I don't know what to make of that man. I don't think I could bribe him or swindle him, and I suspect it would be a bloodbath if father takes him on, no matter the numbers."  
“Either way, I get paid,” Bronn said.

Tyrion let out a small laugh as they rode on, "Yes Bronn, either way, you do get paid."


	17. Bran II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was pretty much entirely Solokov's work, and it's awesome.

He was dreaming of flying once again, skimming over the treetops like a gull headed to sea. Below him, the ground turned from grassy fields and hills to stony shores, before finally giving way to the frothy white-capped green and blue of the ocean. The three eyed crow following right beside him, always present in his dreams now.

 

_You are flying well now, much better than before._

“I know, it’s fun. Is that a ship?”

_Probably, let us circle it for a time._

Bran nodded and banked, lazily circling the galley below, men struggling with the oars as the wind tried to push them back out to sea. There were snapped lines and damage to the ship, but it was nothing that would impair it- aside from the wind, the seas were calm now.

A cry directed him to look to the crow’s nest as someone, a white haired woman dressed in black, leaned over the edge of the barrel perched atop the mainmast and excitedly shouted “Land, starboard side!”  down to the helmsman. Another man nearby,  who looked plain as day, reached down to a pouch around his neck that seemed to shine with a golden light despite the overcast and gray skies, and muttered a quiet prayer to the Seven, thanking them for reaching the sight of land once again, before shouting orders belowdeck.

On the forecastle he saw two figures, one he recognized, the other not at all, the smaller his sister- she had grown some since he’d last seen her- the other was a dark skinned man. Both sparred with sticks.

 

“They went through a storm, didn’t they.”

_A small one, yes. They lost one in white, but gained a new one of white… behold, a lion!_

Slowly another figure poked his head up from one of the hatches, a golden haired boy, and round, however he had a brave face on as he led another figure up onto deck. His elder sister Sansa.

It took time, but he recognized the boy, “One of the king’s sons…Tommen?”

 _Yes, but see what follows him… look closer with your third eye, open it!_ The three eyed crow gave him a peck just above his nose before floating away on the wind, and for a brief moment he saw a lion padding along beside the prince, magnificent and golden, with a set of antlers growing out of the top of its head. He blinked and it was gone.

“A lion… with a stag’s antlers?”

_Yes, that is enough for today. Wake up._

“But-“

_No but, wake up._

The crow suddenly flew at him again pecking and screeching , startled, Bran woke up, and knocked his forehead into Summer’s.

 

“Whu?...” He groaned a little and sat up as Robb spoke again, and Summer whined and licked at his face some more.

 

“Wake up little brother, it’s time to go riding.”

 

He dressed, stretched and hobbled down the steps, stopping in the kitchen for a piece of fresh bread and cold meat from the night before. He had mostly regained his strength, but Rob had insisted they train the horse and make the saddle like Tyrion had suggested.  It didn’t take long for the hunt to assemble and them both to ride out.

 

A light snow was falling. Bran could feel the flakes on his face, melting as they touched his skin like the gentlest of rains. He sat straight atop his horse, watching as the iron portcullis was winched upward. Try as he might to keep calm, his heart was fluttering in his chest.

"Are you ready?" Robb asked.

Bran nodded, trying not to let his fear show. He had not been outside Winterfell since his fall, but he was determined to ride out as proud as any knight.

"Let's ride, then." Robb put his heels into his big grey-and-white gelding, and the horse walked under the portcullis.

"Go," Bran whispered to his own horse. He lightly squeezed his legs and the small chestnut filly started forward. Bran had named her Dancer. She was two years old, and Joseth said she was smarter than any horse had a right to be. They had trained her special, to respond to rein and voice and touch. Up to now, Bran had only ridden her around the yard. At first Joseth or Hodor would lead her, while Bran sat strapped to her back in the oversize saddle the Imp had drawn up for him, but for the past fortnight he had been riding her on his own, trotting her round and round, and growing bolder with every circuit.

 

They passed beneath the gatehouse, over the drawbridge, through the outer walls. Summer and Grey Wind came loping beside them, sniffing at the wind. Close behind came Theon Greyjoy, with his longbow and a quiver of broadheads; he had a mind to take a deer, he had told them. He was followed by four guardsmen in mailed shirts and coifs, and Joseth, a stick-thin stableman whom Robb had named master of horse while Hullen was away. Maester Luwin brought up the rear, riding on a donkey. Bran would have liked it better if he and Robb had gone off alone, just the two of them, but Hal Mollen would not hear of it, and Maester Luwin backed him. If Bran somehow fell off his horse or injured himself, the maester was determined to be with him.

Beyond the castle lay the market square, its wooden stalls deserted now. They rode down the muddy streets of the village, past rows of small neat houses of log and undressed stone. Less than one in five were occupied, thin tendrils of woodsmoke curling up from their chimneys. The rest would fill up one by one as it grew colder. When the snow fell and the ice winds howled down out of the north, Old Nan said, farmers left their frozen fields and distant holdfasts, loaded up their wagons, and then the winter town came alive. Bran had never seen it happen, but Maester Luwin said the day was looming closer. The end of the long summer was near at hand. Winter is coming.

A few villagers eyed the direwolves anxiously as the riders went past, and one man dropped the wood he was carrying as he shrank away in fear, but most of the townfolk had grown used to the sight. They bent the knee when they saw the boys, and Robb greeted each of them with a lordly nod.

 

With his legs weakened and unable to grip, the swaying motion of the horse made Bran feel unsteady at first, but the huge saddle with its thick horn and high back cradled him comfortingly, and the straps around his thighs would not allow him to fall. After a time the rhythm began to feel almost natural. His anxiety faded, and a tremulous smile crept across his face.

 

Two serving wenches stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Log, the local alehouse. When Theon Greyjoy called out to them, the younger girl turned red and covered her face. Theon spurred his mount to move up beside Robb. "Sweet Kyra," he said with a laugh. "She squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did I ever tell you about the night that she and Bessa—"

"Not where my brother can hear, Theon," Robb warned him with a glance at Bran.

Bran looked away and pretended not to have heard, but he could feel Greyjoy's eyes on him. No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand. Robb seemed to admire Theon and enjoy his company, but Bran had never warmed to his father's ward.

Robb rode closer. "You are doing well, Bran."

"I want to go faster," Bran replied.

Robb smiled. "As you will." He sent his gelding into a trot. The wolves raced after him. Bran snapped the reins sharply, and Dancer picked up her pace. He heard a shout from Theon Greyjoy, and the hoofbeats of the other horses behind him.

Bran's cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at his face. Robb was well ahead, glancing back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure Bran and the others were following. He snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Dancer slid into a gallop. The distance closed. By the time he caught Robb on the edge of the wolfswood, two miles beyond the winter town, they had left the others well behind. "I can ride!" Bran shouted, grinning. It felt almost as good as flying.

"I'd race you, but I fear you'd win." Robb's tone was light and joking, yet Bran could tell that something was troubling his brother underneath the smile.

"I don't want to race." Bran looked around for the direwolves. Both had vanished into the wood. "Did you hear Summer howling last night?"

"Grey Wind was restless too," Robb said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. "Sometimes I think they know things . . . sense things . . . " Robb sighed. "I never know how much to tell you, Bran. I wish you were older."

"I'm eight now!" Bran said. "Eight isn't so much younger than fifteen, and I'm the heir to Winterfell, after you."

 

"So you are." Robb sounded sad, and even a little scared. "Bran, I need to tell you something. There was a bird last night. From King's Landing. Maester Luwin woke me."

Bran felt a sudden dread. Dark wings, dark words, Old Nan always said, and of late the messenger ravens had been proving the truth of the proverb. When Robb wrote to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the bird that came back brought word that Uncle Benjen was still missing. Their mother had only returned the night before, drenched and tired, refusing to speak of the events that had happened in King’s Landing.  No one ever told him what was happening, yet he knew it was not good.

And now another raven, another message. Bran clung to hope. "Was the bird from Father? Is he coming home?"

 

“The message was from Father, he’s not coming home just yet. He’s sending our sisters back home along with some of the house guard and… a noble guest…” Robb lifted his face to the snow, and the flakes melted on his cheeks, before grinning, “For once some good news.”

 

Bran nodded before blurting out, “I had a dream last night. I was a bird again, and I flew out to sea.”

 

“Oh? And what did your bird self see?” he asked as Theon Greyjoy reigned in beside them.

 

“A ship, a galley. It looked like it had gone through a storm, but it was still floating strong, Aryra was on it fighting a stick fight with some man from across the sea, and I saw Sansa and the Prince.. the round one.. Tommen I think.”

Robb arched and eyebrow and looked to Theon, who shrugged before speaking, “Don’t look at me. I made no mention of the letter, honest word. There’s not a way he could have found out they were coming by ship from me.”

“The ship I could see someone saying something, but the prince.. I’ve told no one but you Theon.”

Theon shrugged, grinning again, “Maybe the Crannogmen were right in that letter and he really is a greenseer.”

“A what?” asked Bran, ignored as Robb and Theon’s banter continued.

“If that’s the case we should write back, before I look rude.”

“Should I ride back and fetch some…” He trailed off as a low howl echoed over the wolfwood, “Hmmm… sounded like Grey Wind. A kill maybe?”

A responding howl, and then a third howl seemed to confirm his question. “Sounds about right.”

"Let's hunt down the hunters, then," Robb said. Side by side, they urged their mounts off the kingsroad and struck out into the wolfswood. Theon dropped back and followed well behind them, talking and joking with the guardsmen to let them know the hunt was on.

It was nice under the trees. Bran kept Dancer to a walk, holding the reins lightly and looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfell that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an empress spider.

Theon and the others followed along briskly with some of the guard fanning out ahead and behind to help search out the wolves. From ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream. Bran slowed as they approached the stream.

 

“Is something the matter Bran?”

 

“No, I was just remembering how Jory brought us here to fish, you, me and Jon before he left for the wall.”

 

"I remember," Robb said, his voice quiet.

"I didn't catch anything," Bran said, "but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell. Will we ever see Jon again?"

"We saw Uncle Benjen when the king came to visit," Robb pointed out. "Jon will visit too, you'll see."

 

The stream was running high and fast. Robb dismounted and led his gelding across the ford. In the deepest part of the crossing, the water came up to midthigh. He tied his horse to a tree on the far side, and waded back across for Bran and Dancer. The current foamed around rock and root, and Bran could feel the spray on his face as Robb led him over. It made him smile. For a moment he felt strong again, and whole. He looked up at the trees and dreamed of climbing them, right up to the very top, with the whole forest spread out beneath him.

 

They were on the far side when they heard the howl, a long rising wail that moved through the trees like a cold wind. Bran raised his head to listen. "Summer," he said. No sooner had he spoken than a second voice joined the first.

 

“They’ve definitely made a kill!” shouted Theon, over the roar of the water, “sounded like on this side of the stream though, I’ll take some guards and we’ll comb downstream to find them and the deer.”

 

Robb nodded and wave him off as he stamped his feet and shook off water. The snow was falling more heavily now. Where it touched the ground it melted, but all about him rock and root and branch wore a thin blanket of white. As they waited, he was conscious of how uncomfortable he felt. His legs had grown numb in the stirrups, the straps around his thighs were chafing, and the falling snow had melted and soaked through to chill his hands.  

 

Robb turned as a rustling drew the attention of the guards that had remained behind, and Bran strained to see before pressing his left into dancer’s side to turn the horse. The ragged looking woman that had stumbled out of the brush was a stranger to them. Tall and lean, in gray and brown rags, and leaning on an oak spear like it was a walking staff, the tip black and spotted with rust. She looked around, bewildered at finding a company of guards this deep into the wolfswood. “…thank the gods” she croaked out as she stumbled to her knees, “Do you have a healer with ye?”


	18. Viserys

"What do you mean they're gone?! How can they be gone!" Viserys watched quietly as his sister paced about like a caged dragon, the anger and rage simmering in the uncomfortably hot air of the hill house.  
"Khaleesi," began one of her handmaids- Irri if he remembered her name correctly- "almost the entirety of Vaes Dothrak has been searched. If they had been found it would be known."  
"Unless they were beaten to death... Half the city knows they were fighting with steel swords before the explosion! I want them found before anyone else finds them!" Viserys flinched as a wine jug sailed through the air past the slave girl. Who was this that had replaced his sister...is this the kind of example she learned from him?

  
The red haired youth, Reynir, stirred from where he'd been meditating, attempting to find his companions through some sort of magic. He had the look of an abandoned puppy. "I couldn't find them, _Dama_ Daenarys. The echoes off the spell lead west, but that's a lot of distance to cover.” He shrugged again. “I can probably find them, given time."

"I don't care what it takes, find them!" Daenerys continued her pacing, as Reynir slipped from the chambers, wiping sweat from his brow. Drogo and Jorah were currently seeking out the missing four, but he could imagine how they might respond to his sister's current state. The Khal would have likely sat back sullenly, looking from Daenerys to Viserys and back again, trying to discern why one was acting like the other; while Jorah, ever the faithful soldier, would be attempting to console the princess with words and platitudes.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his good hand as he thought on what might console his sister, clearing his mind and slipping into what Anais- no, Lyra- called "the calm", a clear state of mind that allowed him to think.

Obviously, if he produced Jón, Lyra, Emil, and Lalli, but he had no idea where they could have gone or what had happened. Lyra had rushed off suddenly, stating she sensed something was happening, and by the time he had caught up and could see, there was blue light surrounding them, and then the wind from the explosion knocked him back...

"What if it was sorcery?" The idea was so distracting, Daenerys even uttering it had dragged him from his thoughts.

"...er...what?"

"What if Robert hired a sorcerer and this was meant to harm me? You always said his men and knives were mere steps behind us, what if he..what's the word... upped the ante?"

The prince tilted his head some, "I...what?.. sister that's... not just daft that's almost mad...Robert would never hire a sorcerer, not if he wanted to keep his spymaster- even I picked up on his opinion of them. Varys would have turned on Robert the moment he even suggested the idea."

The prince had to weave and quickly duck out of the room as his sister threw another wineflask. It seemed the suggestion of being daft, or almost mad, had struck a nerve. He was followed quickly by Jhiqui and Doreah.  The prince sighed again and quietly began to wander, eventually finding himself at the site where the four had vanished.

Whatever magic had gotten loose, it had torn a perfectly spherical chunk out of the ground. They had been lucky- none of the other Dothraki had set themselves up too closely to Jón’s tent. The crater was nearly thirty feet wide, about half as deep.

What had the serjeant been playing with?

On a whim he walked down into the crater to study the it more closely. The earth was mostly hardpacked, with no sign of disturbance or shoveling.

He saw something gleam from near the center of the crater. As he got closer, he realized it was a piece of metal. He knelt down and studied the object at his feet- it took a moment for the prince to recognize it as part of the ranger's sword.

It took a bit of work, but he managed to wrench it one handed from the ground without hurting himself. "Odd......very odd.. why would this have been left behind....stranger still I don't recall seeing her break the sword..."  

But still, there it was, the last ten inches of the blade, the sharp runes carved into the metal spider-webbed with cracks emanating from where it appeared to have been sheared though.

A bit more searching yielded a few more pieces of the blade, and the hilt. More than enough steel to forge a normal blade, but still missing the vast majority of the bastard sword the ranger had carried. "Hmmm....perhaps this may help Reynir.." Carefully carrying the pieces of the sword, he made his way over to the iron tiger looking for Reynir, almost stepping on Tuuri, who was halfway underneath it behind one of the forward paws, doing some sort of arcane ritual she called "maintenance". "Have you seen Reynir anywhere?"

Her voice echoed from underneath. "Saw him head back to the princess's house."  
  
Unsure if he wanted to face his sister again just yet, the prince eventually settled on the top of the hill, watching the sunset as another shouting match erupted below, Daenerys refusing to believe that the four were gone without a trace.  
  
"Well, she's not happy," Sigrun said, coming up behind him. Viserys half-turned. The warrior woman sighed, speaking in her native tongue. It was enough to make Viserys grateful for Lyra's books, which made learning her tongue so easy. "Can't say I blame her. Seen it before."

“You've seen.. what exactly?" The prince tilted his head, vaguely wondering the limits of the spells the ranger had done. Since they were still working...was that an indication she and the others were still alive, just...not here?

“People dealing with losing the ones they care about,” Sigrun elaborated. The brazen fighter is gone now- she looked tired. “Some break down. Others deny it as much as they can.” She nodded towards the hill home.

"I see... I, was definitely like that after our mother died," Viserys paused, unsure why he was telling her this, "I almost went so far as to blame Daenerys for her death..." He looked down. Everything he’d done, all the rage and bitterness...it seemed like it had happened to a different person, someone, dare he say it, completely mad.

Now, though...he still got angry, at times, but he _knew_ when it was madness, not anything real. He could control it.

Sigrun nodded. “I’d heard. I considered kicking your ass for that, but since Anais cut off your hand, seems you’re trying not to be as much of an idiot as before.”

She sighed.

“If they’re still alive...well, Twig can take care of himself. It’s Emil I worry about.”

“I've a feeling that they are still alive... I did find some things," The prince held up one of the pieces of the ranger's sword for Sigrun to see.

"I don't know if it's proof, but Reynir may be able to use this in his search... I'd think anyway."

“Lyra’s sword? Come on, let's see if he can.” Sigrun clambered down the hill quickly.

He nodded, carefully picking up the pieces of the weapon and making his way down the hill.

Reynir’s room was cooler than Daenerys’s, the multiple braziers in his sister’s chambers sending out waves of heat constantly. Viserys suspected the young man had resorted to magic to avoid baking in the heat, as his room was right next to hers.

The young mage studied the pieces for a while before finally speaking, "I _might_ be able to use this, however the magic is...weird...like something wrote over the spells she had in place and made it break..." He trailed off before hastily adding "I can trace its echoes though, especially if one of the pieces is with wherever they went. It'd be harder to find Lyra if she doesn't have it, but even then this little will help."

Sigrun grinned. “Get to work then, magey. We’re going to find our people.”

Reynir nodded. “I need to concentrate. Can you…”

Sigrun nodded, and left, dragging Viserys with her by his good hand.

“Wait,” Viserys said, digging in his heels the moment they were outside the hill home.

Sigrun stopped, letting go of his hand and giving him a curious look.

“You know about my arrangement with Khal Drogo,” he said, and Sigrun nodded.

“He marries your sister, he helps you get your throne back. Can't say I approve of you _selling_ her, but she seems happy with Drogo.”

Viserys nodded, wincing at the harsh tone. He knew he deserved it, though.

“I'm crippled, now,” he said, pointing his stump at her. “The Dothraki don't respect me, if they ever did. I can't swing a sword, so I'm worthless by their standards.”

“Say what you're getting at,” Sigrun prompted.

Viserys took in a breath. “Can you teach me how to fight with a knife in my good hand? I don't want to be helpless.”

Sigrun looked him over for a moment. Then she grinned. “Not only that, but I’m going to whip your skinny ass into true military shape, little Targaryen.”

Viserys quashed his instinct to shout at her and merely nodded.

Sigrun's grin widened. “Excellent.”

Not a week later he found himself filing into the Palace of the _dosh khaleen_ , the ‘wise women’ of the Dothraki. There was to be some kind of ritual, but Viserys had barely noticed in the personal hell Sigrun had put him through. Runs, exercises, sparring, damn near constant with barely a moment to rest outside of when he collapsed into bed at the end of the day, almost entirely exhausted. If it hadn’t been for the thought of being laughed at- _again_ \- by the Dothraki, he would have given up. As it was, he could barely move without something aching, but he’d never felt more alive.

The ritual had been bizarre, there had been chanting, dancing, special incense burning and filling the palace. Finally two of the eunuchs, servants of the wise women, had wrestled a wild stallion, methodically killed it, and cut its heart out with a stone knife. At that point the prince had almost balked and looked away, but seeing his sister, alone, being handed the heart to eat, he had swallowed the bile that had come up and forced himself to watch...if his sister could immerse herself in this culture, so could he.

And finally it was done, Daenerys’s cheeks and fingers red and sticky as she swallowed down the last bite of the heart, before she turned to face the _dosh khaleen_. Tuuri leaned in, translating for Viserys’s benefit as she spoke to them.

“A prince rides within me,” said the mechanic. That much, Viserys knew- he had heard the low murmurs from his sister’s room as she practiced with Jhiqui. One of the oldest looking women the prince had ever seen, with a bent back and a single good eye, raised her hands, her shriek echoing off the timbers. “The crone said ‘the prince is riding’ and the others are chanting ‘he is riding’ and ‘A boy, a strong boy’."

Bells rang, a sudden clangor of bronze birds. A deep-throated warhorn sounded its long low note. The old women began to chant. Underneath their painted leather vests, their withered dugs swayed back and forth, shiny with oil and sweat. The eunuchs threw bundles of dried grasses into a great bronze brazier, and clouds of fragrant smoke rose up toward the moon and the stars.

As the smoke ascended, the chanting died away and the ancient crone closed her single eye, the better to peer into the future. The silence that fell was complete.

Viserys could feel the electric tension filling the hall and onlookers as they waited with bated breath for the crone to proclaim what she saw for his sister’s child. He saw Drogo touch his sister's arm and for a moment he felt a flare of rage. _I should be there to comfort her, remind her that all is well, not him!_ He shook his head and tried to banish the thought, to retreat to his calm.

Finally, after what seemed an age of silence the crone spoke, lifting her arms to the air.

“I have seen his face, and heard the thunder of his hooves!” she shrieked.

“The thunder of his hooves!” the others chorused behind her.

“He rides as swift as the wind, and behind him his _khalasar_ covers the earth, as numerous as the grass. They will bring thunder and fire with them, none shall hold against his fury. He will make all the world Dothraki, this prince, but he will be faced with many foes, within and without, who fear the coming of his storm. Beasts of iron will ride at his call, and his coming will be sung by the bells in his hair.” The old woman looked at his sister, and for a moment Viserys thought she seemed afraid. “The prince is riding, and he will be the stallion that mounts the world.”

“The stallion who mounts the world!” the onlookers echoed, and Viserys was surprised to find himself joining them.

The old woman peered at Daenerys. “What shall he be called, the stallion who mounts the world?”

She stood to answer. "He shall be called Rhaego," she said, using the words that Jhiqui had taught her. Her hands touched the swell beneath her breasts protectively as a roar went up from the Dothraki.

"Rhaego," they screamed. "Rhaego, Rhaego, Rhaego!"

Viserys felt a fierce surge of pride in his sister. _Rhaegar will live again._

Drogo and Daenerys led them out of the pit, the horselord’s bloodriders falling in behind them. A procession followed them out onto the godsway, the broad grassy road that ran through the heart of Vaes Dothrak, from the horse gate to the Mother of Mountains. The crones of the _dosh khaleen_ came first, with their eunuchs and slaves. Some supported themselves with tall carved staffs as they struggled along on ancient, shaking legs, while others walked as proud as any horselord. Each of the old women had been a _khaleesi_ once. When their lord husbands died and a new _khal_ took his place at the front of his riders, with a new _khaleesi_ mounted beside him, they were sent here, to reign over the vast Dothraki nation. Even the mightiest of _khals_ bowed to the wisdom and authority of the _dosh khaleen_. Superstitious fools.

Behind the wise women came the others; Khal Ogo and his son, the khalakka Fogo, Khal Jommo and his wives, the chief men of Drogo's khalasar, Viserys and the crew of the iron tiger with them, Dany's handmaids, the khal's servants and slaves, and more. Bells rang and drums beat a stately cadence as they marched along the godsway. Stolen heroes and the gods of dead nations brooded in the darkness beyond the road. Alongside the procession, slaves ran lightly through the grass with torches in their hands, and the flickering flames made the great monuments seem almost alive.

When they came upon the lake that the Dothraki called the Womb of the World, and Daenerys stripped herself down, and Khal Drogo took what was his by marriage right, Viserys nearly snapped, barely keeping control. By the time he had found his calm again, they were both clothed and mounted, the procession following them down the road.

The roof of Drogo’s palace had been rolled up tonight, the moon plainly visible. As Daenerys entered, the Dothraki within- those who did not have the rank or the lineage to let them take part in the ceremony- called out comments and phrases to her, one rising above all: “The stallion who mounts the world.”

The sounds of drums and horns swirled up into the night. Half-clothed women spun and danced on the low tables, amid joints of meat and platters piled high with plums and dates and pomegranates.

Viserys saw Mormont near one of the firepits, close to the middle of the hall. A place of respect, if not too much honor- the man was handy with a sword, and the Dothraki knew it.

Drogo and Daenerys sat at the head of the hall, the other two _khals_ arrayed beside them, the bloodriders of all three below them. Even farther down were the four wives of one of the _khals_.

Between the bloodriders and the wives were some empty seats, and at Mikkel’s careful prompting the iron tiger’s crew took them, Viserys joining them. He felt eyes on him from some of the other Dothraki, those who had not seen his work with Sigrun. If they had, they would not think him undeserving. He cut off that line of thought with a mental snarl. Of course they thought him worthless. The Dothraki only esteemed strength and power. He had neither.

  
For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever can guess the source and method of Viserys not being crazy gets a cookie.


	19. Sansa

Sansa decided she hated ships. Father had sent them all back to Winterfell, and Tommen had come with them. He’d had one of the Kingsguard with him, Arys Oakheart, but the storm had thrown him overboard, and there had been no sign of him since.

The storm had caused a lot of trouble for everyone on board. Septa Moraine most of all- she didn’t like the sway of the ship on the calm days, and when the vessel had been heaving on the waves...the smell had been awful.

It had been awful for Sansa as well- she had been kept inside for what seemed like days, the cabin dark and foul, only the crash of the thunder outside for company. It was sweet relief when the gale finally abated, and Sansa could go out on deck again.

But more interestingly was the woman the storm had brought to their ship. They had found her, drifting, clinging to a chunk of wreckage. One of the sailors had had to jump overboard with a rope to pluck her from the sea- she had been unconscious. Sansa hadn't seen much of her for a while- there was no maester on board- but within a day the woman was walking around, clad in a overlarge white shirt instead of the soaked black clothes she'd come in. Even stranger, she’d worn trousers.

Even stranger, the first thing she’d done was offer her services to help crew the ship, as the storm had taken several deckhands along with Ser Arys. The captain, a plain looking man with missing fingers, named Ser Davos, seemed quite thankful for her work, especially with her proficiency at scaling and re-splicing the broken rigging. Eventually to keep the crew complacent- they’d started complaining about women on board- he’d posted her as the lookout atop the mast.

Arya, of course, wouldn't shut up about her, as she had snooped through the woman's belongings and found a sword, black as night, as well as some chainmail. More than likely it had belonged to one of the crew of the woman’s ship, but Arya wouldn’t hear anything normal like that. She insisted it was the woman’s.

Jeyne talked, but with nowhere to go, and nothing to really talk about, there wasn't anything to do. On deck, everything was busy. If it wasn't the sailors running about, it was Arya and her stick-fighting with her dancing master, or the woman clambering in the rigging, completely at home on the ropes.

There was a knock at the door of her cabin, and Sansa hurried to answer it. When she opened the door, there stood Tommen. The young prince stood there mumbling for a few moments, staring at the floor, before standing up straight and putting on a surprisingly brave- slightly pudgy, but brave- face. "Ah... Miss Stark, they said we should be making...um port soon, if you'd want for an escort to the deck to see?" He offered his arm, and Sansa found herself taking it.

“Of course, my prince,” she said, following the boy onto the deck. Sure enough, Arya was fighting with her dancing master again. She restrained herself from commenting. It simply wasn’t _fair_. Arya got to bring who she liked along, but Joffrey was at the Rock now, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She’d even gone to the queen, after it became clear that Father wasn’t going to allow her to stay and be married to her prince, and she’d told her everything. The queen had said she’d take care of things, but nothing had happened, and now they were stuck on this tub of a boat.

At least they’d be leaving soon- she could see White Harbor now.

The chill breeze whipped across the bay as she and the prince stood by the railing, watching as the shore grew closer and closer. A whirring noise caught her attention as the woman slid down from the rigging and joined them, dropping to one knee before the prince and giving him a bow- despite seeming like a wildling at first glance, she at least knew her formalities, it seemed. "Good morrow young prince, Miss Stark." She waited for Tommen's acknowledgement before rising and continuing. "Excellent timing, we should be making port very soon."

“Will you be coming with us, Lyra?” Arya intruded, joining them, sweat-stained and dirty from her spar.

The woman shook her head. “I owe my life to Ser Davos...I will not leave his service until that debt is paid.”

“Actually, I have a task for you, Goodwoman Strelokov,” the captain said, entering. He bowed to Sansa and Tommen. “Miss Stark, young Prince.”

The woman went taut, her focus shifting to the captain like the house guards had towards Father.

“Ser Davos. What new task do you have of me?”

Davos looked over at Tommen, then nodded. “I would like you to accompany the prince to Winterfell. With Ser Arys gone, he needs a protector, and I do not have the crew to spare. Are you willing?”

The woman nodded. “I am.”

"Ser Davos, with all respect, I object to this arrangement. She was found drifting at sea, for all you or I know she could be a pirate." Sansa found herself moving protectively between Tommen and the rest, as she would expect the queen might in the same situation. _Gods, what am I doing?_

Oddly, the white haired woman shrugged and turned to face Ser Davos, "She does have a relevant point, ser. You don't know me, or my background."

The captain nodded, touched the pouch hanging from his neck, and paused. "That's true... I don't know your story. What I do know, is you carry yourself like one born at sea. You walk with dignity, despite what life has cast your way. There is honor to your actions and words. I would gladly take you on as crew even if you didn't owe me your life debt... However it's because of all that, that I feel it to my bones that you would serve well protecting the prince until a knight of the Kingsguard can be sent from King's Landing."

".....So you are willing to swear it on your house name Ser Davos?" Sansa asked frostily.

"On the dignity of House Seaworth and my honor, aye."

“Very well,” Sansa said, stepping aside.

Tommen frowned. “But she isn't Kingsguard...are you any good?”

“She has a sword!” Arya said.

Her dancing master chuckled, and Sansa took a step back. The man had appeared out of _nowhere._ “Having a sword is not the same as knowing how to use one. You should know that, child.”

The woman shrugged. “I’ll spar, if that's what you want,” she said to the dancing master.

The man nodded. “It would ease the prince’s mind, I think, to know if the one who he trusts his life to is skilled. Are you willing to use the sticks?”

She nodded. “I’d fight with two, if you’re willing.”

The Braavosi smiled.

In truth, Sansa didn't understand the intricacies of swordplay, and the fight between Lyra and Syrio hadn't been the flashy, long-fought affair she had expected. It had seemed more like a tavern brawl, like the one she had seen once, when she had followed Arya out of the castle during the King's visit to Winterfell.

The woman held two sticks to Syrio’s one, the one in her off hand shorter and held upside down, the ‘tip’ of the ‘blade’ pointing to the ground. The other was held normally. It looked like a silly way to hold her weapons.

The two nodded to each other, then blurred into motion. Arya said something very unladylike about the Braavosi toying with her as the pair clashed, Syrio pressing the attack, Lyra ducking and dodging, trying to get in close. Each stick that was parried and deflected by the other sounded like a peal of thunder.

It was less than a minute before Lyra broke away from the struggle and held her hands up. "I yield, got me across the neck, I felt it." Even from across the deck, Sansa could see a red welt starting to form across the pale skin of the woman's neck.

The Braavosi shrugged, and patted his side. “True enough, but if it had been with true blades, I would have joined you and the god of death very shortly. Your skills are more than adequate. Many a knight would not have lasted nearly as long, much less struck back.”

Tommen nodded. “I guess she can come, then.”

Minutes later, the ship docked.

Lord Wyman met them at the docks- the man was so rotund that how he had even made it _to_ the docks was unknown- and spoke with the captain for a moment. In mere minutes, they were riding out of White Harbor, a squad of Manderly guardsmen with them 

Towards Winterfell, and away from her prince.


	20. Eddard II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone who reads this, and Solokov for helping me write this. It's been amazing, and will likely continue to be.  
> Buckle up, the party has just begun......

His knee ached. The joint hadn’t been broken, thank the gods, just strained from the fall. What had spooked his horse and why still eluded Eddard, but it could have been far worse. Still, he had a duty to perform, so he managed to limp his way to the small council’s chambers, nodding to Ser Meryn, who was guarding the door today.

Robert was already there, uncharacteristically early, clean-shaven. His clothes seemed looser than before. “Good. I was about to send my squires to carry you down here,” the king said.

“It’s just an injured knee Ro- your grace. It’s not as though I shattered it.”

Robert looked from one side to the other before shrugging. “None here but you and me, Ned. Let's talk... do you you think my sending Tommen to foster in Winterfell was a good thing?"

Eddard finished hobbling to his seat before answering. "...I feel it was wise. Your concern is right, and your sons are going out and seeing new sights, not being cooped up in King’s Landing, which may be better for them both."

Slowly the rest of the councilors arrived- Renly, just returned from Casterly Rock. Cersei, striding arrogantly, Varys padding in on slippered feet. Baelish was gone away on business of his own, and Stannis still remained brooding on Dragonstone, despite the letter he'd sent.

“You know why I’ve called this meeting. To be honest, I’m not sure whether I should be angry or just amazed at the sheer brass ones this man is putting on display,” Robert said with a grin. “You have to admit, it’s impressive.”

“He still is acting in clear defiance of the realm’s laws,” Cersei said frostily. The queen’s face was a mask of fury, and it was obvious why- her father was the one who had been humiliated, after all. That, and Robert sending her children away, which had not improved matters. Eddard was simply grateful his own daughters were safe from any retaliation. He wasn’t fool enough to think the Kingsguard would be of much help, though Oakheart was one of the better ones, but distance would do the job nicely.

“My liege, this is serious,” Pycelle quavered. “If this Hermansson can inspire such loyalty that the smallfolk would act in such a manner towards their rightful lord’s soldiers...it is not an encouraging event.”

“Shut it Pycelle. You know as well as I what Gregor was like. Of course the man who killed him would win their hearts.” Robert’s eyes narrowed. “What worries me more is how the man is not in Vaes Dothrak as he should have been. There should not have been a way for him to travel that far, that fast.”

“Perhaps there is, your grace,” Renly said reluctantly. “Before Lord Baelish left the city on business, he and I discussed some of the rumors coming out of Oldtown...particularly the glass candles, and the apprentice who lit it...they say he has demonstrated several forms of magic already, and has uncovered tomes thought long lost...perhaps…”

Varys looked like he was biting back bile as he spoke up, "All rumors and hearsay Lord Renly. If it were a possibility, I would have heard it by now."

"Then explain how he is here,” Renly growled, "How is it that one man seemingly appeared on another continent, across the narrow sea, travelling from Vaes Dothrak to Clegane Keep without you, or anyone at this table knowing?"

The eunuch bit his lip and closed his eyes before taking in a deep breath to compose himself, "I do not know how. Until I hear something from my birds, I am as blind as you are on this matter, my lords. However, if it was through some form of... magic, or profane rite... then he must be destroyed."

Robert sat up a bit more straightly as he gazed down the table, “That is a harsh judgement for someone who normally deals in ‘maybe’s and ‘potentially’s."

"For the good of the realm, yes, it would need to be done." said Varys, for once without much whisper or mystique to his words.

"I will take it into consideration, as it stands Lord Tywin has not asked for assistance from the Crown, simply informed us of what happened, and this ‘Jón Hermansson’, while he has murdered a landed knight, by all accounts if even a quarter of the tales are true the Mountain had it coming anyway. He has not openly defied the crown...until one or the other happens it would be...unwise, to rashly act."

"Well put brother, if the crown acted on every argument in every lord’s quarter, all the realm would come to you with their troubles..." Renly said. “Still, he will bow eventually and accept his punishment. One knight cannot stand against a Lord Paramount, no matter his skill.”

“And if he gathers an army? It will not be difficult, with his reputation as the one who cut the summit off the Mountain,” Varys said.

“The worst he’s done is refuse to allow Tywin’s men onto Clegane lands,” Renly pointed out. “Hardly a revolutionary.”

“Even if he had an army, the worst they’d be would be a rabble of smallfolk. One good charge would break them,” Renly added. “This man is not a threat to us.”

Robert nodded. “Leave it to Tywin to put the man back into- yes, what is it?” he snapped at the messenger who had just entered. The man gulped. “A...Jón Hermansson...requests audience, your grace. He’s at the gates, and he has refused to leave until he and his party meets with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGER. So dramatic.....
> 
> Q: How was Eddard's knee broken? He never fought Jaime in this timeline!
> 
> A: (-Ragnarok) Not broken as in the original timeline, just injured from a randomly spooked horse and a bad fall. Some events happen even with the butterflies....like Tyrion and Bronn working together, or a certain Stark's dreams...
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO:
> 
> If anyone wants to beta this- catch errors, especially in tenses, which are a hazard when two people with different styles collaborate...well, fire off a PM on the SSSS Forum. Also, I'm going back and editing the chapters to remove as many tense and grammar errors as possible.


	21. Reynir II

The grasses of this dreamworld were far improved from what they had been, when he had first found himself there. The platforms extended virtually everywhere, a delicate tracery stretching farther than the eye could see.

Which was good, because Reynir was running as far as he could, tracing the faint path one of the fragments of Lyra’s blade had guided him on. The spell he had made wasn’t one Jón’s fylgja had shown him to make- it was one that came instinctively. The sharp lines and quadrants of the rune just _felt right_ , in a way he couldn’t describe.

He missed Grim. Jón himself was rarely seen, even when he was teaching, always working on something, reinforcing the wards that guarded his haven so strongly even Reynir couldn’t breach their walls, tinkering with his own magic, doing something just out of sight...but Grim was dependable, patient, in a way Jón wasn’t. He and Dog got along as well as two canines could.

He hoped the fylgja was alright. He supposed that was part of the reason he was doing this himself, rather than sending Dog to search for it. He needed to see them alive with his own eyes.

The spell led him onward, then halted, and Reynir stopped, looking around. Shadows cloaked this part of the dreamscape, obscuring everything but the path, but he made out the familiar light of a _very_ welcome haven. The first he had entered, in fact.

Lalli was alive, at least. And as Reynir walked closer, he noticed the others were, too- the intimidating walled bulk of Jón’s own chunk of dreamscape, and the small, peaceful bubble of Emil’s.

Lyra’s, though, was nowhere to be seen.

Reynir shrugged, and walked up to Lalli’s haven, Dog following him. Jón’s wouldn’t let him in, but if he asked nicely, maybe Lalli would. And, possibly, he wouldn’t get punched with a tree this time. He knocked politely, and sat by to wait.

After a moment, Lalli’s head poked out cautiously from his haven, fixing on Reynir.

“Hi!” Reynir said cheerily.

Lalli nodded, and he retreated back into his haven, opening the shields- Reynir could sense them now, even if they still seemed weak- to allow Reynir access.

Reynir entered slowly, sitting on the edge of the lake, Dog lying down beside him. He’d learned to not mess with the raft at the center of Lalli’s haven- that was his space.

Not talking was difficult, but he managed to restrain himself. Lalli would tell him what he needed- what he had to do was _listen._

After a moment, Lalli spoke. “We’re in Westeros,” he said simply, the tone familiar from the scout reports Reynir had overheard him give to his cousin, even if it wasn’t Finnish. “The Icelander killed the lord of the castle we landed in- it was needed. He was...not a good leader. Hurt the people he was in charge of. The Icelander is in charge for now- we’re safe.”

Reynir grinned despite himself- this was good news. "What about Lyra?” he asked, “we found pieces of her sword. It's how I found you, one of them probably came with you...ah the princess...and your cousin..and Sigrun too would probably want me to ask this...do you know how to get back?"

Lalli considered for a moment, then he shook his head. “No.”

“To Lyra being there, or…”

“Both. The Icelander, he might know both, but…” Lalli made a frustrated gesture.

“Oh.” Reynir sighed. “Well, I’ll just have to keep looking for her, then. You can find my haven?”

Lalli nodded, looking affronted. Right. He didn’t like his skill questioned.

“Well, the princess’s son is going to be a great ruler, apparently. The old women said so, apparently they can see the future. I haven’t seen anything yet, but maybe it’s because their gods are different and so I can’t look into the future of people they don’t have as worshippers, or maybe…”

Lalli’s face went blank, and Reynir stopped mid-sentence. Right, babbling. He needed to stop doing that. “...anyway, do you know how you got there?”

Lalli shrugged, which Reynir took as a no.

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone. Come visit sometime.” Reynir stood back up, and stepped out of Lalli’s haven, back into the grass sea.

He stretched out the spell again, looking for another shard of Lyra’s sword, if he could find one. He _would_ find one.

There, that was definitely a trace...faint, but it was there. He ran.

As he did so, the shadows began to melt away, turning first to the old, familiar streams and oceans of the dreamworld back home, before dropping suddenly into a roaring, tempestuous ocean, frozen paths of ice cutting through the waves. Reynir slowed, fighting to keep his footing on the now-slippery surface.

He listened for the spell's echo and found it further out into the sea. Carefully, he stepped out onto the waves. They moved slowly, more like a thick pudding than water, but Reynir could still run across them.

On occasion Reynir felt he saw...something...and he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched, but he ignored it. The Rash wasn’t here, after all, and it never would be.

Finally he found where the spell was pulling him. The echoes were below him, in the depths of the water.

He stood there, pondering the possibilities, till a bark brought him back to the present.

"That's right, Dog...maybe he smelled something." And with that, the race was on once again, back along the shadowy coastline, under ghostly trees and icy fields. Dog was definitely leading him somewhere, instead of wandering like he sometimes did.

Finally he crested a rise, and paused under the shadows of a ghostly white tree.

There he felt the familiar lights of havens, at least four, but...he could only see two of the structures, even though he could feel the rest. He looked closer, and saw a group of spirits clustered around the haven. A pair of wolves, larger even than Grim, and a girl. He looked closer still, and saw that the wolves also bore the telltale glints of havens. Moving, living havens? This was strange indeed.

He took a few steps closer, when a black bird streaked towards him like a thunderbolt, cawing and flapping. _Despoiler! Betrayer! Bearer of plague! Begone!_

Reynir sat up with a start as he awoke in Vaes Dothrak. He remembered...falling as a bird had attacked him. "...a raven?"

Nothing else, though. Not after finding Lyra’s sword in the depths.

“Well?” Sigrun and Daenerys asked simultaneously. Reynir shook off the cobwebs, and looked at them both. “Managed to talk to Lalli. He, Jón, and Emil landed together, somewhere in Westeros. Jón killed the local lord, but since he wasn’t good to the people he ruled things are...okay, I guess? Lalli didn’t mention anything too bad, and he said they were safe. He doesn’t know how they got there, or how to get back.”

“And Lyra?” Daenerys asked.

Reynir shook his head. “I found a fragment of her sword under a sea. I don’t know if that means the same thing as it does in the real world, but I couldn’t find her haven.”

There was a long silence, before the princess, face unreadable, shook her head. “Out. All of you.”

Sigrun threw an arm over his shoulder as they made for the door. “Good job. ‘Least we know most of them are alright,” she said softly. She shook her head. “Some vacation mission,” she groused.

Reynir didn’t know quite what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut.

“You’ve been hanging around with Tuuri a lot,” Sigrun said suddenly, as they left the hill home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, realize Sigrun gets a lot of cliffhangers when other POVs are involved.
> 
> Also posting from my phone, so formatting might be off  
> -Ragnarok
> 
> As always, criticism is appreciated, especially if it is of the constructive sort.


	22. Sigrun II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am beginning to think Sigrun chapters are cursed- both took inordinate amounts of time to finish.
> 
> Well, we're not dead.
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, criticism is welcome.

The market was the closest thing to the smell of home that she’d found, Sigrun mused. Sure, there were all sorts of strange people- what kind of person wore an animal’s _tail_ on their hat?- but the bits of Westeros were very, very familiar. Sigrun walked alongside Daenerys’s litter, watching carefully, her student following quietly.

Drogo had ridden off in the morning, going after some of the white tigers that lived around the plains of Vaes Dothrak, and so the rest of her crew was following a very heavily pregnant Daenerys around. Well, sans Tuuri and Reynir. Which really just left her and Mikkel. Jorah had been with them, but the knight had wandered off, saying something about the caravan that had come in today having letters for him.

Sigrun just kept walking, drinking in the sights. While the Dothraki didn't have the slightest comprehension of how merchants worked, they were more than willing to let said merchants set up outside the city proper, so long as they paid proper respect and tribute to both the gods and the _dosh khaleen._ Who were very creepy, even though they could see the future just like a proper Norwegian _seiðkonur_ . Well, no _seiðkonur_ had done that whole chanting thing, but her point stood.

The young idiots who made up Daenerys’s _khas_ were shaping up to fight properly, at least. She wasn’t going to let them anywhere near a gun, but they knew how to use more than their arakhs now. Which was especially handy in a place like this, where even the steel of an eating knife was banned from the city proper.

Despite the sounds and smells of home, she felt...lost. _I'm not going home, am I... this is where we're staying... they're nice enough people I guess.. but it's not really home...,_ the hill house was close, its smoky fires and timbers like one of the mead houses back at Dalsnes.

But it wasn't enough. It was warm and cloudless, it was always cloudless out here, it had been months and there seemed to be no change in seasons: something she'd learned from Mormont, that the seasons lasted years where he was from...it sounded amazing. Years to hunt trolls, rather than only a few months to find and burn them out during the summers, then again they didn't have trolls, or the Rash here... without that life was almost dull.  That left her students to keep her occupied. Alongside the men were Daenerys's handmaidens. Irri and Doreah were doing well enough, though Jhiqui had a problem holding back during sparring. Good against trolls, not so much with humans. Viserys was progressing fast even with his handicap, pairing off with Irri or Doreah mostly. Any objections he might have had to being partnered with a woman had vanished shortly after Irri had gotten past his lax guard and laid him out with one punch during their first match.

She got dragged out of her musings as Viserys tapped her on the shoulder again.  
"We're stopping. My sister wanted to get off the litter to walk a while and you were...wandering without looking. Is everything alright?"  
"Yeah.. just thinking of home."  
"What was it like? Your home." Sigrun tilted her head at this question. It seemed far out of line for the prince to wonder about anything other than himself. Then again, his attitude and mannerisms had slowly softened after he'd lost his hand. "I learned a bit listening to Tuuri and my sister talking about her homeland, but that was...well...I was drunk for much of that...the details are blurry..."  
"Was that a confession that you're not as perfect as you think you are?"  
Viserys sputtered. "No... I.." The prince finally sighed. "Yes...I suppose it is."

Sigrun gave him her third-best grin. First and second were reserved for trolls and Yule.

Laughter from Daenerys rang out behind them, two of her guards apparently having gotten into a competition eating spiced sausage. "That's good,” Sigrun said.

Viserys nodded. "She hasn't smiled or laughed since those four vanished..."

The conversation drifted as they followed along, the princess stopping at each stall and turning it into a silly game of siccing her handmaids on her brother to drape him in some exotic finery. Sigrun nearly choked on one of the horse sausages laughing when they managed to wrap a blue and white feathered dress on him, and she wasn’t the only one. She paused to help him out of the dress before sprinting to catch up with the rest of the group, who had stopped at a wine seller's table around the corner. The poor fellow was being browbeaten with Daenerys’s list of titles by

"You have the honor to address Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven Kingdoms."

The wine merchant dropped to his knees. "Princess," he said, bowing his head.

"Rise," Danerys commanded him. "I would still like to taste that summerwine you spoke of."

The man bounded to his feet. "That? Dornish swill. It is not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask."

Something about the manner of the wine seller was off-putting to Sigrun. "Something's not right..." she muttered.

"Yes....I don't quite like him..."

“The honor is mine." The merchant rummaged about in the back of his stall and produced a small wooden cask. Burned into the wood was a cluster of grapes. "The Redwyne sigil," he said, pointing, "for the Arbor. There is no finer drink."

"Khal Drogo and I will share it together. Aggo, take this back to my litter, if you'd be so kind." The wineseller beamed as the Dothraki hefted the cask.

Sigrun frowned as Mormont brushed past them. "No," his speech was quick, words almost stumbling over each other. "Aggo, put down the cask."  

Aggo looked to the princess, who nodded, eyes narrowing as she tried to discern when the knight had returned, "Ser Jorah, is something wrong?"

"I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller."

The merchant frowned. "The wine is for the khaleesi, not for the likes of you, _ser_."

Ser Jorah moved closer to the stall. "If you don't open it, I'll crack it open with your head." He didn't have a weapon, a taboo even here in the markets, save his hands, but Sigrun had seen him spar with some of the Dothraki and knew he could make good on his threat. The wineseller hesitated a moment, then took up his hammer and knocked the plug from the cask.

“Pour," Ser Jorah commanded. The four young guards of Daenerys's khas arrayed themselves behind him, frowning, watching with their dark, almond-shaped eyes.

"It would be a crime to drink this rich a wine without letting it breathe." The wineseller had not put his hammer down.

Jhogo reached for the whip coiled at his belt, but the princess stopped him with a light touch on the arm. "Do as Ser Jorah says," she said. People were stopping to watch, and Sigrun looked around, watching angles. Just like a fight with trolls, she needed a clear path...

The man gave her a quick, sullen glance. "As the princess commands." He had to set aside his hammer to lift the cask. He filled two thimble-sized tasting cups, pouring so deftly he did not spill a drop.

Ser Jorah lifted a cup and sniffed at the wine, frowning.

"Sweet, isn't it?" the wineseller said, smiling. "Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it isn't the finest, richest wine that's ever touched your tongue."

Ser Jorah offered him the cup. "You taste it first."

"Me?" The man laughed. "I am not worthy of this vintage, my lord. And it's a poor wine merchant who drinks up his own wares." His smile was nice enough, but she could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.

"You will drink," Dany said, cold as ice. "Empty the cup, or I will tell them to hold you down while Ser Jorah pours the whole cask down your throat."

The wineseller shrugged, reached for the cup...and grabbed the cask instead, flinging it at her with both hands. The next few moments were a blur of motion as Viserys, Sigrun and Jorah moved, almost as one, to protect the princess. Mormont ended up shielding her the most as the barrel crashed into him, knocking him prone. Sigrun stumbled over Mormont while Viserys snaked past them both, giving chase to the fleeing merchant, tackling him to the ground. The market ground to a halt as guards poured atop the prince and the wineseller, pulling them apart. The one in charge she recognized, a tiny man with skin like old leather and a bristling mustache- blue, of all things!- that swept up to his ears. He seemed to know what had happened without a word being spoken. "Take this one away to await the pleasure of the khal," he commanded, gesturing at the man on the ground. Two guards hauled the wineseller to his feet. "His goods I gift to you as well, Princess," the merchant captain went on. "Small token of regret, that one of mine would do this thing."

“How did you know?” Mikkel asked quietly, gesturing at the broken cask, leaking into the dirt.

Mormont shook his head. “I did not. But once Magister Illyrio’s letter arrived, I feared.” The big knight looked around, sweeping over the cautious gazes of the strangers that filled the market. “Let us go. It is best not to talk of it here.”

Mikkel nodded, as did Sigrun.

It was not until they were back at the hill home, with the handmaidens dismissed, that he explained.

“Magister Illyrio sent this warning to Viserys. I apologize for breaking the seal, but I thought it was meant for me,” Mormont said, drawing a piece of paper from a pocket. “Robert Baratheon has promised a lordship to whoever takes your life.”

“My life?” Daenerys asked cautiously.

“And your child’s, and your brother’s.”

Sigrun bared her teeth as she clenched her hands into fists.

“The Usurper is no longer bothering to hide the fact he wants us dead,” Viserys said, his expression a mirror of her own. “It changes nothing. We’ve run from knives in the past.”

“No.” Daenerys stood, eyes hard. “We do not run. We will repay this, with fire and blood.”

“What is needed to be repaid?” Khal Drogo asked, as he entered the hill home. Sigrun glanced toward the entrance, and saw the carcass of a huge white tiger slung over a packhorse.

Jorah repeated the warning sent through the letter, and told the khal the events of the market, Drogo’s expression growing to match her and Viserys’s.

“War-woman Eide, Jorah the Andal, to each of you I give any one of the horse from my herds you wish. Any save my red and my wife’s silver, they are yours.”

His eyes went harder than iron. “And to Viserys, the Handless King, brother to my wife, to you I pledge a gift as well. I will give you the Seven Kingdoms you crave. I will take my khalasar west, ride the wooden horses across the black salt water, and fall upon that land of the iron chair as no khal has ever done before. I, Drogo, will do this thing.”

There was a moment of silence, as shock dawned on Viserys’s face, before the one-handed man shook his head, slowly speaking, as if every word pained him. “I wish I could accept, my khal, but such a gift is too great. I cannot hold the Kingdoms. Give such a gift to my nephew, and I will count myself happy.”

Drogo’s eyes narrowed, before he nodded. “Let it be done, then, Handless King. The stallion who mounts the world shall have his Seven Kingdoms and iron chair, and you will see it done.” He turned his gaze on Sigrun. “War-woman Eide!”

The khal’s tone sent her spine straight and shoulders back, old memories of basic running through her head. “Yes?”

“You said Hermansson was in Westeros, now?”

“That is true.”

“Find a way to speak with him, if your magics can. Tell him of this, and tell him to prepare for war. Tell him to arm those who would follow him with the greatest of your weapons he can make. Tell him we are coming.”

Sigrun swallowed, then nodded.


	23. Gendry

He’d expected to be free of his master eventually, with his own smithy, ready to make whatever needed making.  
He just hadn't expected this would be the way it had gone.  
“Boy!” Tobho Mott’s voice cracked from the main house, strangely harsh. “Get yourself here!”  
He set down his tools, and made his way to the house, the eyes of the other journeymen following him. Tobho had spoken like that rarely, only twice that he had remembered; once when a careless apprentice had ruined a batch of steel and the other when a journeyman looking away at the wrong time had resulted in a broken breastplate. Both smiths had been gone by the end of the day.  
Before he made it, the door to the main house opened, as master Mott and two strangers walked out. Gendry stopped, waiting for master Mott to speak.  
One of the strangers was a boy, grey-haired, small and slight, whose eyes moved everywhere, taking in the yard and forges at a glance. The other was an immensely tall and broad man, black-haired and scarred. Both wore clothing that was much poorer than most of the customers the master had.  
“This him?” the black-haired man asked, and Mott nodded. “You still have not said why you want to see him,” the armorer said.  
“I have a few projects that need capable smiths, but in a different direction than normal,” the man replied, folding his arms. “That and Robbie's seal not enough for you?”  
“There is still the question of compensation,” Tobho Mott pressed. “Unless you have a way to ensure who you hire is paid…”  
The man reached into his satchel, and pulled out a gold bar the size of his forearm. “This sufficient?”  
“Indeed,” Tobho Mott breathed, staring at the huge quantity of wealth.  
“Then do we have an agreement?”  
“Yes, but first it should be written--”  
The man pulled a scroll from his satchel. Tobho Mott took it, unfurled it, and began to read.  
“These terms are….surprisingly generous,” he said. Gendry began to worry. Pay? Terms? Why had master Mott called him over?  
“Very well. I accept. Boy,” Mott said, finally turning to Gendry. “This is your new master. He’s agreed to take you on for six months, and then hire you as a journeyman afterward.”  
Gendry found himself nodding as the stranger extended a hand. “Jón Hermansson,” he said.  
“Gendry Waters,” he croaked back, still numb.  
He was leaving.  
The rest of the afternoon was a blur as he followed the man and the boy. He tried to talk to the boy, who couldn't be any older than he was, but all he got was a blank stare. It was nearing evening when they reached the Mud Gate and loaded up into a wagon.There were several other smithey boys coming along, as well as a bear of a man, with a hand that had been burned black at some point. He'd heard of the man, mostly through Master Mott's grumbling- Lucan 'Blackhand’ Sands, a Dornish bastard that liked to experiment and tinker, making machines rather than just shaping metal. What did the stranger want with him?  
Thankful to be off his feet and into the wagons, Gendry leaned back a little, before pulling the bulls-head helmet he'd been working on when he left Tobho's shop. He began polishing it while the rest of the apprentices chattered amongst themselves.  
  
He felt the wagon tilt and groan in protest as someone sat down opposite himself, and he looked up for a moment to find the bearded face of Blackhand watching him. For a moment he felt like he was being judged before the man spoke up.  
"You're Mott's study, ain't ya."  
Gendry nodded, resuming his polishing work on the helmet as the wagons began to roll away from King's Landing.  
"A boy of few words, I suppose if I were in your shoes I'd be doing the same... that or jabbering my head off like your peers.... no, I wouldn't say they're peers. You've got true skill, the rest of this lot can only copy. You've got the eye of a true smith though, can make your own designs, right?"  
Gendry shrugged, and Blackhand continued droning on as he focused more on the helmet and less on the bearish man. It seemed like ages before the wagons jerked to a stop.  
  
"That's far enough, everyone out and onto the grass under the oak." Gendry looked around confused as Jón barked orders. He could still see King's Landing in the distance behind them and they really couldn't have traveled far, but the trees were cool and shady, and the grass was nice and comfortable, and so after a few moments of hesitation he climbed down out of the wagon. The grey-haired boy began passing out meat, cheese, and bread while Jón dealt with the horses.  
  
Having eaten, some of the other apprentices had stretched out to relax under the shade of the tree. Gendry sat and polished the helmet. In the steel he saw a reflection of Lalli speaking with Jón, and tilted his head, catching the tail of the conversation.  
"Now you're sure you can do that correctly this time... right?" He realized it was Lalli speaking. He'd thought the boy was a mute after the length of time he'd spent silent.  
Jón nodded in response. "Without her to mess with it, it’ll work.”  
There was a flash and a feeling like he'd just touched hot metal and then light as he found he was leaning against a building, the full sun shining down on him, hot flagstones beneath him where grass had been. Gendry carefully picked himself up while some of the other smiths jumped up and whirled around in confusion, before Jón's voice boomed across the courtyard, "Welcome to Blackford Foundry."


	24. Tuuri II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solokov wrote this one, I merely consult and post.

It was a dream, she knew that for certain, but she chose not to wake up as she leaned back in the chair. It was snowing outside and the radio hut was warm, surrounded by humming electronics. The switchboard and overhead condenser drawing moisture out of the air, the buzz of static from the radio headsets, the howl of ghosts not a problem tonight. It reminded her of home. Tuuri stretched a little before picking up the headset, the line tracing back to a lit plug as she listened to the comms traffic, a long range scout reporting in, weather reports from Denmark. Oddly she thought she heard the howl of a ghost calling for help during the moments between transmissions…she’d have to ask her cousin or brother to clear the airwaves again. Except Lalli was halfway across the world in a place called Westeros, and Onni was in another world…  
  
She sat up, gently pushing aside Reynir. The night air was cool as she stretched and dressed again, slipping the horsehair vest she’d long since replaced her jacket with back on and making her way to the tank.

That dream again….the ghosts… the reports…it’d been over a month since she last tried the radio. It was a whim, but it just felt right as she flipped the switches to warm up the console and extend the radio mast.  
  
She slowly clicked through the preset bands now that the radio was fully warmed up, the buzz of static her companion for now as the radio headset sat over her ears. *click* Static, *click* static, *click* static, *click* “S̨̀ij̡a͡͠i͠͠ņ̧t͠i̶…̡͜͝.̡͟ W̵͞h̸i͏̶́s͟k̛͡e̡y …” *click* static, *click* static. Turri stopped dead midclick as she realized she’d heard something. Adrenaline coursed through her as she clicked her way back to the band, before she adjusted the fine atuner and rotated the directional disc on the antennae mast to try and clear the signal. “…that was… Finnish?” It had been so long since she’d heard it spoken the words had sounded foreign to her.    
  
“To̕i̷s͏tuv́at ͏vi̧ȩs͜t͜ín ke҉ne͟l͡l̶e ̛taha̶ns͞a͢ ͝k̶u̕u͜n͏te͏l͜u̵…..” She grinned, grabbing a sheaf of paper and scribbling down the words from the signal, it was faint but she’d picked up a signal far, far to the north west. She let it repeat twice to confirm she’d gotten it down right after converting the phonetics into something understandable before rushing off to wake Sigrun and Mikkel.

Sigrun she found asleep laying across a feasting bench being watched over by the prince while Mikkel seemed to have just appeared as soon as she started looking for him. “I picked up a radio signaI… think it’s from Lyra, I couldn’t tell for sure who was speaking because of the static and I think I heard two different voices at one point…”     
Once Sigrun had downed a pot of water, she began reading through the message. “What’s this word here?” she said, pointing to a hyphenated bit.  
“Um…oh that means it was garbled. I couldn’t make out the words. I think there were errors in the transmitter’s recording so I couldn’t make out certain words.”  
She nodded before reading the message aloud, “Repeating a message to anyone listening. [garbled] Status; Alive. County; Westeros. Region:[garbled] ; Winterfell. Quarantine in effect, Rash [garbled].” She paused for a bit to mull over the significance of the message before finally speaking. “Well, seems my vacation’s over and I need to get to this ‘Winterfell’ place.”  
  
Mikkel nodded in agreement, “Yes…they’ll need as many people who are experienced in dealing with the Rash as possible. Though we might not beat Jón there…with Emil in tow I fear it’d be less ‘quarantine’ and more ‘sterilization’….”  
“So, princey,” Sigrun gave Viserys a light punch to the shoulder to get his attention, “How long till we reach the coast?”  
“Two months at least, more to arrange to cross the Narrow Sea. This ‘Rash’…. Is it really as bad as you’ve said it is?”  
“As bad and worse...really, we’ve only told you the stories we’d tell our kids about it…” Sigrun frowned.

“Tuuri, get a message made and respond…. She probably can’t pick it up but...well it can’t hurt to respond. Let whoever’s transmitting know their message was heard. I don’t care about the wording you and Mikkel are better at that stuff anyway. Princey, come with me, I need to sharpen my troll punching skills.”


	25. Jón III

The gunner pulled the lanyard from his position crouched behind a pile of sandbags, and an earsplitting boom echoed across the firing range. A few moments later, nearly two kilometers away, the target exploded into shrapnel as the high-explosive shell detonated. He nodded. Seemed they'd finally licked the range problem- the interrupted screw that Lucan had worked up did the job nicely, letting them breech-load without losing pressure.  
He lowered the spyglass and turned to the Dornish bastard. “Nice work. That's going into production. Mind if we call it the Greenblood?”  
The Dornishman grinned. “Not at all.”  
He nodded, and started walking again.  
The one disadvantage of this place on the Blackwater Rush was the size needed for everything to work. The facilities for making gunpowder had to be set as far away as possible from the foundries and metal-workers, likewise the firing and testing ranges, and the paper mills and printing presses,  and the town itself. The size of the artillery range alone….he shook his head, and mounted his horse. Next on the circuit was the training grounds. A mix of City Watch from King’s Landing, sellswords, and the poor and destitute had flooded into the camps to try their hand and soldiering. Most had left almost as quickly as they arrived, but the ones who stayed were making progress. Time to see how well they were doing for himself.  
His destrier's hooves rang on the cobbled stone that made up the Blackford roads. The soldiers, along with the weapons training, were learning proper warfare, including engineering. With strong backs at hand at all times thanks to Robert's writ, building projects were taking place all over. Some of his new neighbors had complained, but that quickly subsided when the cadets extended their efforts to their roads as well, for free. Truth be told, it was still benefiting him.  
Part of him still couldn't believe he’d pulled it off. He’d half expected to be thrown out of the Red Keep anyway, but it seemed his timing was good enough to ensure that word of his deeds had reached Robert. Wrangling not being hung as a traitor had taken much less doing than he had anticipated, too. Sure, the Queen seemed to hate him, but she was the daughter of the man he’d been thumbing his nose at. It was to be expected.  
What hadn't been expected was Robert's enthusiasm. Once shown what Lalli's rifle could do to a suit of plate, he’d outright laughed, and asked how many he could buy from him.  
Jón shook his head with a small smile at the memory, scarcely two months old. That had given him the opening he’d needed, to request funds, to hire smiths and enlist men under a Baratheon banner, all to make gunpowder and weapons. Despite what he'd heard of Robert, it seemed the man was taking his duties seriously. He almost regretted trying to kill him. No, Robert wasn't the man Daenerys's story had laid him out to be. Tywin Lannister, on the other hand….well, the bill would come due for that man some day. Alongside Amory Lorch’s.  
He turned in his saddle, to where the manor loomed over the river. His own banner flew over that- a grey wolfshead over a crossed sickle and hammer, on a red background. The sickle for land, the hammer for industry, and the wolfshead for him. Seemed appropriate, even if it hadn't been his idea. It was overshadowed by the Baratheon one that flew above it. A necessary precaution. If he was seen as someone building an army, the entire realm would be against him. So the men drilled under Baratheon banners, their uniforms were black and gold, and they swore oaths of service to the King and his Hand. Soldiers so powerful were only to be wielded by the realm itself.  
Even if Blackford Foundry produced everything that made them that power.  
He grinned, and kicked the destrier up into a trot as the training grounds neared. The crackle of rifle fire greeted him well enough, men at drill, aiming at targets. The best would be set aside for the Rangers, one of his side projects. The bandits had ceased to trouble most of the Crownlands after Sandor had started that idea. Well, the younger Clegane had for all intents and purposes run off to kill whoever made trouble in his line of sight, legitimizing it had come later. Now the burnt man had a warrant, a book of law, and a set of fine revolvers with hounds etched into the grips. A small price to pay for peace on the roads and men trained to keep it. Already there was talk of expanding their warrants to the riverlands and the Reach.  
The grounds themselves were still mostly tents, barring the firing range and the obstacle course. That didn't mean they were uncomfortable- summer was still in the air, and both roads and flood channels had been dug and made by the men. A platoon approached at a march, in full gear and pack, singing.  
_The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;_  
_'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;_  
_'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about,_  
_An' then comes up the Regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out!_  
  
The Lieutenant of the platoon saluted as the men kept marching in perfect time. Twenty miles out and another twenty back in full pack, that was what they drilled for. Forty a day, on good roads. Which were in short supply in this country, admittedly.  
  
_The young recruit is 'aughty -- 'e draf's from gods know where;_  
_They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square;_  
_'E calls it bloomin' nonsense -- 'e doesn't know, no more --_  
_An' then up comes 'is Company an'kicks'im round the floor!_  
  
He headed for the firing range, riding past the drill grounds- where another platoon was practicing battle drill, marching in formation and firing as one- and yet more tents, each laid out with geometric precision.  
A loud 'fwoosh’ came from the range, followed by a now familiar maniacal laugh, both nearly drowning out the constant noise of the rifles. He grinned, and dismounted, tying the reins to a convenient post.  
Emil was grinning as he hefted the wildfire launcher. He’d had a hand in the design, as a Cleanser, and his wild grin as burning green death smote the target at fifty meters showed his approval. He shouldered the weapon, a bronze dragon’s head snarling from the business end, and turned to him. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Can we--”  
“My lord!”  
Jón turned as one of the newly-minted officers, a former sellsword named Ragnar, entered. “Yes?”  
“A party of men is approaching. Armed, flying Lannister banners.”  
“Hmm. Do we have a platoon to spare?”  
“My 3rd, ser. I can get them off firing drill in a few minutes.”  
“Do so. I’ll meet you and them at the gates by that time,” he said, leaving the range. He had a suspicion as to which Lannister was coming, and why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the armament and tech level off of the excellent fic Saruman of Many Devices. This includes Kipling.
> 
> Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/7568728/1/Saruman-of-many-Devices
> 
>  
> 
> My canon excuse is that one of the people who showed up to be recruited was a hedge knight, Ser Ryddard Kidling, who Jón put to work making marches and the like for the men.
> 
> The deal Jón made:  
> Blackford Foundry is a small town on the banks of the Blackwater Rush that, until now, lacked a knight or lord to run it. The territory has now been proclaimed royal land, with Jón as the Steward of it. The New Royal Army has been assembled there, because, logically, their armaments are there.  
> Jón had no official authority over the soldiers, but as the man who makes their weapons, understands how to use them, and as Steward distributes their pay....draw your own conclusions from that.
> 
> Weapons, Equipment, and Organization:  
> Foot soldiers get a mail shirt as their default armor, though they can spend their pay to buy brigandines or similar armors from the smiths Jón has recruited under royal authority. They wear black trousers and 'gold' (typically yellow) shirts as their uniform, though cut, style and quality vary wildly, since they have to pay for their own clothing. They're 'gifted' (pay is deducted for cost) a 'Trident' rifle (made in the Martini-Henry style, single-shot with a range of about a thousand yards) with a bayonet, as well as a fighting knife made from whatever weapons they turned in, which were melted down and recast.  
> Officers- typically the few nobles and landed knights who showed up- are given much the same, with the addition of epaulettes, a fancy hat, and a 'Whiteknife' revolver (fires the same 7.62mm cartridges as the rifle) and longsword to replace whatever they brought. Officers must be able to read and write, and the local Blackford maester has been put to work teaching the ones who want to be commissioned but can't fulfill that particular requirement.  
> Artillery is mostly non-existent at this moment, but with the breech-loading 'Greenblood' gun being put into production alongside the 'Blueburn' siege mortar, this will stop being a problem. Already ubiquitous is the 'Tumblestone' rapidgun, which is a derivative of the mitrailleuse.  
> Currently, the New Royal Army has a strength of about 1,200- two-thirds of which is in the first two partial regiments of foot. The remaining third is divided between dragoons and heavy cavalry.  
> Pay is being sent in courtesy of the Master of Coin, who has not toured the facilities of Blackford, but who finds the 'King's side-project' very interesting....and of course, an excellent place to make a profit.


	26. Bran III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set before the Tuuri chapter, obviously.

He was flying again. He flew a lot these days. It was dark out, but still he flew, the three eyed raven his companion, teaching him what he could from the hole he lived under.   
  
_ Come, see this camp! _ it cried.   
  
“I know you can talk like a person. You showed me who you were.” And hadn't that been fuel for nightmares.   
  
_ True. You’ve progressed a great deal. Land on this branch and look on this camp. What do you see? _   
  
He flitted through the night before finding the tree that the raven spoke of, and carefully hopped onto a clear branch. There was ice and he almost slipped off, but he flapped his wings some to balance before peering down.   
  
“It’s a traveler’s camp.”   
  
_ Whose camp? _   
  
“The prince’s. Why do you keep bringing us here every evening?”   
  
The raven began to drone on about needing to know everything of the here and now, Bran drowned him out with his own thoughts as he looked down on the camp. The white haired woman was on watch this night, she always left corn out for him and the raven. Un-bidden he quarked a little before tilting his head down to look expectantly for the bowl “Corn?” he asked.

The raven began to berate him for letting the creature have more control.  He was about to flit down when motion from a tent caught his eye.   
It was the prince… he saw little of him in the evenings, and it appeared like he’d just rolled out of the bed roll wearing a loose nightgown.   
“Miss Lyra?” The woman was already kneeling and checking on the prince to make sure he wasn’t hurt, “I had the dream again.”   
“The one about the boy and the old man? What were they doing this time?” She patted him on the head gently. Movement caught his eye again, as an older girl stumbled back into the camp.   
“I’m so sorry, I went chasing after my sister because she was certain she heard her dreadful little wolf out in the woods, I thought he’d stay asleep…”  It took Bran a few moments to realize it was his eldest sister, with her disheveled hair and stained travelling clothes.   
“It’s quite alright Sansa. I’ll get him back to sleep again…. Did your sister find Nymeria by chance?”   
  


Sansa shook her head, “And I hope she never does.”

  
“You’re going to have to….” The woman trailed off as Sansa made he way back into the tent ignoring her, “…. eventually settle with her….” she sighed and pulled the prince into a hug before leaning back near the fire, “now what to do about you…”   
“The song from last night?”   
“Ah, you just want me to sing again, that’s why you’re having trouble sleeping isn’t it.”   
“And the thing with the strings….”   
“the strings?...oh you mean…” She waved her hand through the air, the prince nodded and Bran thought he almost heard faint music from below, like someone playing a woodharp.   
“Hush little prince, it’s time to sleep.” her cadence shifted as she began to sing, softly enough that bran could only just hear the words, “ _ Nukkua nukkua, pienileijona, Väsynyt, väsynyt pikkupeura.” _   
The prince yawned some, mumbling as he started to doze, "...that's not Valyrian... it's something...else"   
The woman nodded, "It's one of the other languages I learned beyond the shadowlands, sleep child, you'll learn of those lands some other night," she said softly before resuming her song.   
_ What’s she doing? _   
“I think she’s singing him a song… and something else… I hear music…”   
_ Music? _ The raven hopped down to a lower branch, beckoning Bran to follow.  _ I hear it now. _   
Bran nodded, there was the soft notes of a woodharp, but no instrument in sight, as the woman seemed to strum along invisible strings. They sat and listened for a time, watching the scene below. Bran quickly realized that the prince was already asleep.  _ Enough for now, tonight we fly far south; there are new people to-  _ The raven’s words became a screech as he was knocked from the tree by the paw of a fox. Bran sat there stunned, slowly turning to face the creature, it’s eyes aglow and it’s body strangely transparent, like a reflection in a pond or creek.   
_ Fly, flee! Begone! _ the raven had regained his composure and screamed orders to Bran, as it rolled onto its feet and flew back at the fox, distracting it’s swipe at Bran.   
  
A moment later Bran was flying, as fast and hard as he could away. It took some time to realize he was alone, but still he flew, until a tree loomed out of the darkness and hit him. And he sat, dazed staring up. It was near dawn now as he looked up, for how long he’d sat there staring at the sky he did not know, but now there was a pair of mossy eyes staring back down at him and a disembodied boy’s voice echoed nearby, “This is him…..Wake up, I found him.”   
  
“Wake up Bran!” Bran groaned and tried to sit up, but he quickly found that Summer… no it was Shaggydog this time, he could tell by the smell of the fur, was sitting on him.

  
“I’m awake.. Please get him off me.”   
  
“Shaggy, down.”   
  
The direwolf gave Bran an apologetic lick across his face before rolling off the bed. “Summer?”   
  
“Hunting rats I think.”   
  
Bran stretched and groaned, his muscles ached from his night’s flight… they always ached, not as much as the people who were sick, at least according to Luwin, that the ache was the worst part of the sickness so far, well except for the people who’d gone to sleep and not woken up.  He climbed from the bed and dressed himself before following Rickon and shaggydog down to the great hall. There were less dogs today.  Bran busied himself with counting the people in the room as he joined Robert at the table. “…where’s Maester Luwin?”   
  
Robb averted his gaze.   
  
“Robb. Where is he?....Theon?”   
  
Theon seemed about to speak when Robb cut him off. “Maester Luwin’s fallen ill as well Bran.”


	27. Hodor I

“Hodor,” he hooted happily as he walked into Mikken’s forge. He didn’t know why the white haired girl needed this rock, just that she did, and she couldn’t carry it.    
“Very good Hodor, set it down here,” she said, pointing to the heavy bench built beside the forge. He nodded and set down the green and orange rock, the wood groaning beneath it in protest.   
“And what is it you need this time?”  asked Mikken, as he looked up from the barrel he was re-doing the rivets on.   
“Wire… This piece of ore should do nicely.  As thin and long as you can make it.”   
“….I’ll give it a shot woman but your requests are nonsense…. steel paddles that’ve been carburized, salted like a ham, then boiled and oiled.… a lodestone the size of a small child… crack these rocks open for a specific crystal…What in the name of the seven did Robert and the prince ask you to make?”   
“You’ll see.” She grinned.   
  
Hodor smiled as well. It was good to see people smiling again. “Hodor,” he hooted again as he headed off to the kitchens to collect a set of loaves of fresh bread before wandering into the godswood. There he found the children of the house. Bran, Rickon, Arya  and Sansa, as well as the gold haired child named Tommen. Arya and Bran were stickfighting while Sansa sat on a bench watching them scowling and Rickon and Tommen sat beside one of the steaming pools discussing something among themselves. Despite his size, he quietly stole up to the young miss Sansa and offered her a section off one of the fresh loaves.   
“Why thank you Hodor, it was quite nice of you to bring these out for us.” She smiled warmly as she looked up to him, but the ice still hadn’t melted in her eyes.   
“Hodor,” he replied before backing up as the rest of the children, having realized he was there, swarmed him to grab a loaf as well. Arya and Bran used their stick-swords to each knock a loaf from his hands as he attempted to dodge out of their reach. A moment later it felt like a hand had pushed him along the back, and he turned to find Rickon and Tommen grinning as he felt another invisible hand on him push his chest.    
“Hodor?” he asked.   
Arya turned to look at the two boys, puzzled as well. “What’re you…. You know we’re only supposed to do that when she’s instructing us!”   
“Hodor?” he asked again before letting out an alarmed shout as the invisible hand pushed him backwards to land in a sitting position “HODOR?!”   
The two direwolves that had been hiding nearby were on him in a flash, Summer and Shaggydog each taking a set of loaves and dashing off to the prince and Rickon to deposit their prizes for inspection. Hodor studied the remains of the loaves in his hands, two squished, but intact loaves and a partial loaf from the one he’d offered Sansa. He shrugged and began to merrily munch down on his snack while Arya continued to berate the two boys, for what he couldn’t tell. He hadn’t seen them do anything.   
  
With his snack wolfed down, he moved to the crunchy ground beneath a sentinel tree and quietly watched the children at their play for a time, before making his way out of the godswood and to the outer wall, watching the slow procession of people making their way to the graveyard at the edge of the winter town.   
“Hodor?” he asked as one of the guards passed by, one of the cats following along atop the stone wall, pausing to rub and purr against Hodor’s legs.   
“Oh that?...It’s for the Baker's daughter….they say she got kicked to death by the Crofter's horse while she was chasing after and trying to eat Theon.”    
“Hodor…” he said somberly. Miss Baker had been nice to him and would sing songs to him sometimes, even after... He rubbed his head some thinking about that day before quietly staring out across the battlements to watch the funeral, wondering who or what the terrible disease down in the winter town might take next.


	28. Tyrion III

 

Blackford Foundry. Well, the first part of it’s name was growing true enough, from the smoke and soot from the engines within. Tyrion shifted on his pony, waiting at the palisade wall that stretched around the town. The sound of hammers was interspersed with distant pops and bangs, and occasionally deeper booms.

“It's a wonder they aren't all deaf from the noise,” he remarked idly to Bronn. The sellsword grunted.

Behind them, twenty red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen shifted nervously. Half of them probably thought the sound was some kind of sorcery, but Tyrion knew better. Once the raven had come with King Fatbert’s message pardoning the mercenary, Tywin had started combing through the Lannister eyes and ears. Varys had been more than willing to relay how the wolf-helmed man made his blasting powder. Explaining it in front of the entire small council. Such a waste of a useful secret.

Still, the manufacturing secrets of the weapons remained unknown. For one, too many were being made for the workforce that had been counted. The man simply hadn't brought enough smiths to account for the sheer quantity and quality of the steel that went into the blast-powder guns. For another, they worked far better than the ones father had ordered made. Shot farther and more accurately, and reloaded quicker too. He’d seen the mechanism, but that tied back into the lack of smiths that should have prevented Hermansson from making them quickly. Lannister gold could pay for the weapons to make their way to father’s hands, but the process of  _ making _ them was jealously guarded. Which explained his visit in the first place. Ostensibly to discuss arming the red cloaks, but both Tyrion and Tywin knew that wasn't going to happen unless the Seven themselves interfered.

The wooden gates of the palisade opened with a groan, and Tyrion found himself staring down the barrels of forty rifles. And one Jón Hermansson, in full armor. He’d put together a suit of full plate, with nary a seam to be seen. The wolf-headed helm glared at him even better than its owner did.

“State your business,” the sellsword turned minor lord said bluntly. “You're on Crown territory.”

 

He paused, quietly studying the assemblage before them, while several of the red cloaks shifted nervously. Most of the marksmen were young, perhaps no older than fifteen or sixteen, with only a few in their twenties. And those were weathered men, clearly sellswords. Black trousers and yellow shirts, with mail or brigandines covering the torsos.

“Now, now there's no reason to be rude. I had hoped, good ser, to see just what the ruckus was. It seems you've brought the scourge of industry down upon what was once a quiet village and my good father and I had become curious to see how the good king Robert was spending our dragons."

Hermansson snorted. “And get a look at how much of a threat we pose,” he said bluntly.

Tyrion nodded. “Of course. And I’m no great loss if you decide to repeat what you did to our dear departed Mountain. I am an Imp, after all.”

Hermansson chuckled. “Alright. You’ll want a tour, I suppose.”

“And drinks. The road was hard and dusty.”

The man shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, before making a sharp gesture. One of the soldiers, dressed in better clothing and adorned with a formidably plumed hat, shouted orders, and the soldiers stood, holding their weapons upright and moving to the sides of the road in well-drilled motions.

“Just you and the sellsword. The rest stay outside the wall.”

Tyrion looked over his men. The twenty of them were dusty and sweat-stained from the hard travel, hardly in fighting shape in this summer heat. “A fair enough compromise.”

The captain opened his mouth to protest, but Tyrion shut him off with a wave of his hand. "Captain, I know that my father bid you to ensure my safety traveling to, and within, Blackford. But I am certain Ser Hermansson will be honorable in his tour." Before the man could do anything further, he goaded his pony into a trot, Bronn’s own steed following close behind his. The gates began to close behind them.

 

Bronn looked around at the unflinching soldiers. “They’re a bit young, aren’t they?” 

Hermansson shrugged as he moved his own horse, an unassuming brown, alongside theirs. “They don’t have a lifetime of sword and spear work to undo, and they accept discipline. Most of the sellswords didn’t take to the drill and exercise all that well, but the few who are left are shaping up to be fine officers.” He nodded to the man with the plumed hat. “No need for an honor guard, Lieutenant.”

The soldier nodded, barked more orders, and the column formed up and marched down the cobbled road, disappearing from view at a trot.

Hermansson turned to them. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you since we last met. Most of it's likely fabrication, but I did hear you're a man who loves his books. I think you'll like what we've built here very much.” He motioned to a squat building down the road, and rode up in front of it, tying his horse to the rail and disappearing inside.

Tyrion did the same, Bronn following.

For a moment, he thought himself in a winery. The presses were almost the same, after all. But the scent was wrong, as it had an acrid and slightly oily smell. It took Tyrion a moment to make out exactly what it was.   
  
"Ink?...a very odd thing... I didn't believe it was made by pressing things... though I suppose the base could be olive oil if you didn't mind it potentially spoiling..."    
  
He slowly turned, studying the building a bit more thoroughly. There were stacks of parchment on shelves on one end, and racks with what appeared to be sheets of paper with writing on them, but no olives, and it wasn't quite the scent of olive oil anyway. "However I don't believe this is an oil refinery....no no no... this..." he paused, letting the word hang in the air for a moment, " This is something, much more interesting than the production of ink or even a winery....Tell me Ser Hemansson... what is this place? What are these presses?"

Hermansson grinned. “A printer’s shop. Where they mass-produce books and pamphlets. The type is set in the top of the press for each letter, and then you can make hundreds of copies of the page in a few hours.”

“The maesters aren't going to be very happy with you,” Tyrion mused, staring at the wondrous, simple machines. 

Hermansson laughed. “Add it to the list of knights and stuck-up fools I’ve already angered. Bloody heredity….we need more men like Baelish in charge.”

Tyrion’s grin faltered. “Baelish you say….” Something stunk, and it wasn’t the ink. “I wonder….does the king know about these?”

Hermansson shrugged. “He should. I’ve written out enough reports and sent them, but I haven’t the slightest idea if he even reads them. Didn’t seem the sort. He’s got a good Hand at the reins, though.”

Tyrion hrrm’ed again as he studied every detail of the press, memorizing everything he could. He’d need to commit it to parchment, even if only for the sake of having one of his own. He’d have to impress the importance of this machine on his father, as well. “So these are printer’s presses?” he asked. “As opposed to wine or oil presses?”

Hermansson nodded. “Got it in one. We’ve been using them to print two things- copies of the  _ Seven-Pointed Star _ , and instruction manuals for the soldiers. Might expand it later.”

He turned. “Come. There’s more to show.”

Tyrion found himself following like a leaf caught in Hermansson’s wake. 

“Perhaps I might persuade you to expand sooner, rather than later. I recently came into possession of an...interesting tome, and I promised the previous owner that I’d ensure copies were made. While I’ve been doing so diligently, one’s writing hand does tend to cramp after a while…”

Hermansson removed his helm to look Tyrion in the eyes. “An interesting tome, and yet you cannot turn to the septons or the maesters to copy it for you, eh? What sort of tome is this? From what I know, while the septons are not kind to writing, the maesters at least would want knowledge spread…” He frowned. 

Tyrion warily looked around some, now very thankful to free of the ears of the redcloaks. "This will probably sound strange or silly, even a jape...but it's a book of rites... magic and runes of various kinds used by the First Men..." he paused, waiting to see Hermansson’s reaction, half expecting to be laughed at or called mad. At times he thought that it had been a dream himself, but the blood had burned like wildfire under the light of the full moon, and the Stark child had woken up healed of any lasting harm from his 'fall'. That was proof enough to Tyrion.

But Hermansson didn't laugh. Instead, he’d stopped dead. “An actual book of rites?” he asked carefully. “You are certain?”

“You can ask Lord Stark yourself. It let his son walk again,” Tyrion said.

Hermansson nodded, a short sharp motion. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our tour short, Lord of Lannister. I have something to show you that is best hidden from prying eyes.” He untied his horse from the rail, and mounted it quickly. “Follow me.”

Tyrion mounted his own pony, and followed as quickly as the animal could manage. They passed more buildings, both warehouses like the presses had been in and small, low structures, all with guards posted outside them. 

At the end of the dusty road lay Hermansson’s manor. It was large by the standards of the town, with many more windows, which made it obvious it wasn’t intended to withstand a siege. A trio of groomsmen relieved the three of them of their mounts as they approached, and Hermansson stalked inside.

The size of the building was easily explained once Tyrion entered- within was what seemed to be both a library and a scriptorium- rows of tables with men working at them dominated the floor, bookshelves taking up space along the sides. Large black boards with chalk markings were placed behind several of the rows, and men were writing on them as they spoke to others who were sitting down and watching intently. Tyrion caught sight of what looked like a basic alphabet and mathematical equations.

“Officer schooling, for the commissioned and non-commissioned,” Hermansson explained, heading up a narrow staircase at the side of the room. Tyrion climbed it more slowly, cursing his legs the entire way.

Hermansson led them still further, into a smallish room dominated by a large desk. He shut the window shutters, and closed the door. “Now, we can talk.”

Tyrion considered his words carefully. “About what? My purpose here, the book, Lord Stark’s son, or something else entirely?”

Hermansson took a deep breath, then let it out as he sat at the desk, placing his elbows on the table and propping his chin on interlaced fingers. Sitting down in full armor like that could  _ not _ have been at all comfortable. “Magic. You're the first to mention it. Why?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Like as not because it's the first time it's worked since the last dragon died.” 

Was it, though? Judging by his reaction, Hermansson seemed to think otherwise.

The armored man relaxed fractionally. “I’ve heard about that. I was wondering if my information was faulty.”

“About the lack of magic?”

Hermansson nodded.

“But why would you- you’re a sorcerer yourself, aren't you?”

That explained everything. The quality of the weapons. The strange inventions. This man knew magic. 

Bronn laid a hand on his sword.

Hermansson grinned. “I prefer the term alchemist.”

Orange lines flared across the room, a spider’s web of fuelless, heatless flame, with Hermansson sitting at the center of it all. “I'm grateful for your information, Lannister. If magic  _ is _ beginning to return to this world, I’ll need to ward Blackford, and that takes time.”

“Bronn, calm yourself,” Tyrion said, as the sellsword bared steel, trying to keep his own voice level. “If he meant us harm, we’d know it.”

He studied Hermansson, who now seemed even more of a spider than Varys himself, grinning widely. “I doubt you mean to adopt the village, so perhaps you could tell me what you mean by ‘ward’,” he said. More interestingly, he’d said ‘this world’. Were there more? Was he from another, or just aware of the existence of others? More questions than answers, and he doubted he’d find the latter with this man, no matter how genial he acted.

Hermansson shrugged. “Protect it against magical intrusion and attack. Someone tries to scry it, their head might explode. Not sure how two different schools would interact. Would be interesting to see.” He paused. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He opened a drawer on his desk, and began to rummage through it, before extracting a case. “A gift, for you.”

“Considering the subject matter thus far, should I be worried about this gift?" Tyrion asked. He shoved away the image of exploding heads. 

Hermansson shook his head, and set the case on the table. “I'm far enough in your father's bad graces already. I don't want to grant him an excuse to turn Blackford into another Castamere. Open it.”   
Tyrion stood, and climbed atop the chair, studying the case, before clicking open the latches and opening it. He let out a low whistle.

The steel of the shotgun within was a dim, almost flat black, curly-grained maple wood forming the stock and fore. Both stock and twin barrels were much shorter than the ones he'd seen the Watch drilling with, and the ones his father's smiths had produced. Sized for a dwarf, he realized. Engraved in the receiver was the arsenal mark of Blackford Foundry, a wolfshead over a crossed hammer and sickle, as well as a curious designation- ‘20 gauge’. He tapped the latter. “The gold cloak’s weapons have a similar designation on their arms, as I recall,” he said, sitting back down. “What's the difference?”

“Theirs is 12-gauge. Heavier ball bearings in the shot. This is less powerful,” Hermansson said. “Less likely to knock you off your horse if you decide someone deserves both barrels.”

“That would not be particularly helpful, yes,” Tyrion said, before noticing the lines of orange had vanished. “What  _ do _ those do?” he asked.

 

Hermansson shrugged. “Nothing. Just needed to show you it. Unless you’re a mage, you won’t see any working, just its effects.”

 

"And those effects would..." he trailed off, realizing he'd grown distracted, and shook his head to clear it before examining the shotgun more closely. "This steel is quite impressive... Might I inquire how it was made? I don't have an eye for the craft but even I can tell this is as excellent as castle forged." He was lying. It was better.

Hermansson waved a hand. “Alchemy lends itself well to metal and fire. Forgework most of all. I did not have the time to make the weapons I intend as gifts conventionally, so I relied on alchemy to shape the metal.”

"By alchemy, I doubt you mean the mixing of chemicals and herbs the maesters and pyromancers hold so dear.”

Hermansson nodded. “Quite right. Alchemy...all material is made of smaller pieces, and those made of smaller pieces still. Alchemy let's you manipulate those with magic, as well as the forces that act upon them. Heat, motion, electricity- those three are the most basic. Magic itself is a force as well... but here, it seems quiescent. Almost silent.” He shook his head. “But I doubt you came here to listen to me ramble about thaumaturgical theory,” he said with a grin. “Your book of rites. I’ll need to see the original, before I print it. Want to make sure there aren't any of the nastier variety of spells in it. Some of the mages back home could get creative when it came to keeping others from finding their knowledge.”

 

Tyrion hummed for a time, thinking to himself before finally responding. "I would love to say yes, however I'm nearly finished transcribing the tome and it's pages are fragile with age... and truly, I cannot just return to Casterly Rock telling my lord father your production processes are magical and that we cannot replicate them without a maester that lit a glass candle...especially if I'm carrying this fine shotgun you've so graciously bequeathed myself with."   
  
He let the implication hang in the air, unspoken: the book for a non-magical way to process the steel and make the shotguns. Tyrion hoped the bait was worth the risk of possibly angering Hermansson- with some men dicing around the issue was more dangerous and problematic than simply being blunt.

 

Hermansson shrugged. “Don't need magic to make the steel and mold it. All my smiths are hired men, and most of them know the basics. You want guns? Have your father sit on the privy for a spell and try to buy my men away.” He grinned again. “My men might be common, but they're loyal.”

Tyrion sighed. He'd overplayed his hand. "...I'll need to think on what we've discussed, and what I've seen here before coming to a decision.... Thank you for the opportunity to tour your facilities."

He carefully packed up the shotgun, handing the case to Bronn and clambering off the chair. "For what it's worth: there are very few people in Westeros, my father not among them, that will truly appreciate what you're working on here."

Hermansson nodded. “I know. Why do you think a Faceless Man hasn't attempted to kill me yet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet JESUS this one took forever to write.


	29. Lyra II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation in the north continutes to grow die.

She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen asleep as she sat up brushing a loose lock of white hair from her eyes, the room was cold now though even without the candles she could clearly see the notes she’d been working with, the old maester’s writings. Even sick and dying from the rash Luwin had kept meticulous notes on its progression and had even formulated an effective field test for immunity according to his notes, but the secret of what chemicals from the stocks he had went into it were a mystery and he had taken it to the grave with him. Despite how backwards some aspects of life here seemed, the old man had a surprising grasp of disease prevention and control, and after deducting most of the transmission vectors had established a quarantine of the known infected. Unfortunately he hadn’t accounted for small rodents and the disease had spread like a fire to dry grass through the remainder of the township surrounding Winterfel. There had been close to a thousand people here merely a month ago, now there was barely four hundred.

“If only we had arrived sooner…” she growled and rubbed her eyes a little, based off the notes Maester Luwin taken and her own observations there were more immune people here. Out of ten people 3 would most likely be immune, which was clearly a good thing, but of the 7 that would inevitably become sick, 4 would die outright, and the other 3 would become trolls. She wasn’t sure if this was because people here in the north were harder and tougher than the people of her world, or some other factor was affecting things. According to Osha, the wildling woman from beyond the wall almost everyone in her village, in reality a group of hollow hills and hearths around a large bonfire pit, had fallen sick and most had turned into trolls as well. Thankfully because of the cold of the season, the majority of the trolls had remained inactive and could be dispatched with ease and it had taken very little goading on Lyra’s part for the healthy to give the dying and changing the “gift” of mercy, especially after the baker’s daughter had torn apart a horse trying to eat the greyjoy boy… not that he hadn’t likely deserved the reprisal.

She studied the maester’s notes again, even to his dying breath he had tried to puzzle out the rash. Already now a letter, half the master’s script, the remainder her own writing covering what he had missed. How rodents were the carriers and that cats with few notable exceptions were immune and naturally could sense anyone and anything that was infected, was riding south to a place called “the citadel”. Some of her words of warning were falsified…. With memories of the valyrian ranger residing in her now she could make a convincing story of a small enclave that had escaped the doom and made a new home beyond the shadow sea, and that this too had fallen, not to a repeat of the doom, but rather to the coming of the rash, the blight that had destroyed her homeland 90 years prior.

A rattling at the door startled her from her thoughts, and she turned to answer. The girl, Arya was there, somehow she’d entered with barely a whisper, and the door closing had been her only clue to the girl’s pretense. [i]Unless of course her opening the door is what awoke you, you’ve become complacent ranger. Strong walls and competent soldiers who know how to weird a blade, that breeds softness child.[/i]

The words had come unbidden, both her instruction as a trainee at the fleet, and the memories of the ranger echoed the sentiments. “Yes?”

“I was following one of the cats.” The girl’s demeanor and stance seemed more like one sneaking than following.

“A lie. Try again.” It was a game had picked up shared not just with the girl, but with the swordsman Syrio. It helped keep the mind sharp, to create a story so convincing, that not even one’s body could give away the truth.

“I heard a noise…. It might have been a rat.”

“And you were sneaking after it…. But where’s your sword… ratsticker was it?”

“Needle, and in the armory,”

“And what would you have done had you found this rat?”

“I’d have used your sword instead.” that weapon was also in the armory and nowhere to be seen,

“Another lie. What are you doing?”

“Returning your notebook.”

Lyra paused for a moment, realizing that her notebook filled with runos and cantrips was missing from the table, in that moment Arya ducked back out of the chamber, “but I can see you’re busy so I’ll return it another time.” It took another heartbeat for the ranger to recognize just what had happened and bolted through the doorway giving chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda flying solo now, and I hope it's not too rough.


	30. Clegane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lost man finds himself among good company.

Sandor wasn't precisely sure how there were so many bandits in the area. While there was always the chance of particularly desperate men turning to banditry, this was a time of peace and plenty. Not exactly conditions for desperate men. Still, he and the rest of his men had taken down half a dozen bands in the Crownlands alone.

And this group of idiots would make seven. A dozen men, they’d hidden themselves along the road, waiting and lurking. Wasn’t quite against the king’s laws, which meant he couldn’t simply round the lot up and shoot them all. No, he had to wait. Didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare things in his favor, though. All of them had at least one Ranger lining up a shot with his brainpan. Thanks to that foreign boy’s help, all of them knew how to hide themselves, himself included. Wasn't much different from concealing crossbowmen. Not much different from firing one either, more kick to it though. Through the grasses he was hiding in, Sandor could see the cart trundling north along the kingsroad with the labored mule pulling it along. With his hood up and long hair the boy was hard to tell from a caravanner wench, at a distance at least. Aside from the bandits waiting in the weeds and his men, the only other soul in sight was a beggar of a hedge knight slowly walking south along the kingsroad. Tattered gray cloak and rusted gauntlets, no breastplate and a battered-looking bare sword strapped to his side, nothing to worry about. Sandor's focus shifted once again, back to the bandits. The cart was trundling closer to where the bandits were, he heard his men shifting with anticipation waiting for their bait to be taken.

The breeze had shifted and he could barely hear the leader of the bandits as he jumped from the brush. His crew followed with him, yelling ‘stand and deliver’ or some other nonsense, demanding the goods they thought were in the cart. Lalli made a show of holding his hands up and turning to uncover the cart.  
Sandor centered his sights on the farthest of the bandits, an archer hanging back in the treeline, and pulled the trigger. The rest of his rangers fired moments later, bullets scything down the outlaw band as Sandor’s target fell, chest a bloody ruin. Two of the bandits survived, looking around in shock as the two dozen Rangers broke cover and ran towards them, weapons up. “King’s Rangers!” Sandor shouted as he followed them, his own weapon pointed at the closest of the bandits. “Drop your weapons!”

The bandit's shitty swords fell into the dirt. Three of the Rangers approached them, binding their hands quickly and efficiently.

“Seven Hells. Clegane?” the hedge knight said, it seemed in the commotion he’d run up expecting to help the ‘caravanner’.

He tilted his head, studying the man and his tattered appearance. He seemed familiar, but the dirt and grime made it impossible to tell for sure. "Yes, I’m the bloody Hound," he said wearily. “Anything else you want to add to that? I doubt you're with them.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bodies of the dead bandits.

“It's me. Arys Oakheart.”

“And I'm Robert on the Iron Throne,” one of the Rangers muttered. 

Clegane whacked him on the back of the head as the pieces clicked into place. Put this hedge knight in pure-white armor and clean him up...it was definitely Oakheart.

“The hells are you doing out here?” he asked. “And looking like that? The King decide to send you on a pilgrimage or something? Last I heard he'd found religion.”

“Pilgrimage... found faith?." Arys shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I.. the ship I was travelling on with the prince and Lord Stark's daughters, it was caught in a storm, I was flung overboard. I don't..." He sighed, hanging his head. "I must get word to King's Landing and White Harbour...a search must be begun...if their ship foundered…”  
Sandor looked the Kingsguard over again. He looked half-starved under those rags. “You won't make it to King's Landing, not like that. Bloody bandits would eat you alive.”

“Bandits? There's more? You would think--”

“I don't know where the idiots are coming from and I don't care. We'll take you back to Blackford. You can rest, and we'll send a raven to the King from there, see if he knows if they arrived safely.”

“The prince is at Blackford? Is he headed elsewhere?”

Sandor almost laughed. Oakheart hadn't gotten the message, it seemed. “No Lannisters here 'cept the Imp and his entourage, and they're heading out. I'm a hound with a different master, same as these fellows here.”

Arys frowned. “You called yourselves 'King's Rangers’. And your weapons...what has Robert started?”

“One of my boys can fill you in on the way,” Sandor said, motioning him towards the cart. The rest of the Rangers had finished loading the bandits, living and dead, into the back, he noticed. Sandor snorted in muffled laughter as Arys looked at the scene in bewilderment, shaking his head and muttering in confusion. It was a simple thing to find him a spare horse and soon after they were riding for the foundry.

"So how'd you survive? Thought ocean and armor didn't mix?"

Arys shrugged, "Luck.. divine providence perhaps? I'd removed my breastplate and most of my mail, to protect them from the salt spray."

 

"Pity that luck didn't keep you on the ship though,” Sandor observed.

Arys took in the smoke and sound of Blackford without his mouth falling open, a point in his favor. Most didn't manage to control themselves so well.

As the gates opened, he rode closer to Sandor. “Why'd you abandon your guarding of the Prince?” he asked quietly.

“I'm no bloody Kingsguard,” he snarled back. “Not breaking any oaths to do it. Besides, with Gregor--” he managed to not growl the name, but it was close “--dead, I was the one to hold that damn Keep. The wolfshead bastard had everyone follow him here, so…”

It's a hell of a world, no matter the finery on it, Clegane. I don't intend to leave it that way.

He shook his head. “Gave me a place at the table, same as the rest of the captains. He's mad, but he's got the King's ear and he seems to know more than half the damn maesters in Westeros.”

“Would have lost my leg if it weren't for that powder of his,” one of the Rangers commented. 

“Right. He'll give you respect.” More than Boros Blount would have gotten, the sack of lard. “We'll send a raven, and mayhaps you'll get a chance to commission a new armor.” He waved broadly at the smithies that lined the street they were on. “Finest metalworks in the bloody Seven Kingdoms. And nobody out of the Crownlands knows much about them.”

“Perhaps later, for now, a raven and a hot meal would do...the meal first, I'm likely to eat the raven otherwise.”

Sandor nodded, and rode on.  
Ser Hermansson was out on his man's porch, out of armor for once. Instead, he wore a grey doublet with red trim, the wolfshead, hammer, and sickle of his arms on the front, and a pair of the black-dyed trousers that were popular among the men. He gave the wagon a look. “More bandits? Please tell me some were taken alive.”

“Two,” Sandor reported. “And a Kingsguard in the bargain,” he added, jerking a thumb at Arys.

Hermansson looked the man over, then nodded. “Put the two survivors to work, burn the rest,” he said. 

The Rangers dispersed as Sandor and Arys dismounted, following Hermansson inside.  
“Who...is this man?” Arys muttered to Sandor. “An army and a town, all in a few months? Why does the King allow this?”

“Because the Army is his,” Hermansson called over his shoulder. “I'm not even the commander, technically. Just the fellow in charge of supplying and arming the whole damn thing. That's what Blackford Foundry and Arms is for- selling weapons to the highest bidder. Just so happens this New Royal Army is my best customer, and I'm still the ranking officer until the King appoints someone else to General or he or the Hand head up here to take over.”

“That seems like a suspiciously beneficial arrangement,” Arys said sharply.

Hermansson shrugged as they entered the kitchen. “I'm a foreigner. No familial power, no roots here. Selling my knowledge seemed like the best option. A bit like that eunuch on the Council, though less creepifying.”

“What?”

“Disturbing,” Sandor clarified.

“…disturbing…” echoed Ser Arys, though he likely meant the whole arrangement rather than the eunuch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the last full chapters that Ragnarok and I put together.


End file.
